Telephone poles spoil the forests for hikers and birds alike

“I’m a tree, a tree,”
She said.
I flew around again;
I studied the smoothness of her skin.
But where are your twigs? Your leaves? Your branches?
“You are the first one who has bothered asking--
you can build here, build here.”
I flew high and low but couldn’t find
anything about her I didn’t like
and I built a small nest in low little hole,
and marveled at the wonder of my new home.
“I’m so glad. So glad you’re near.”
What other birds do you have living here?
“What other what? Birds indeed,”
she said without answering,
“isn’t it enough that you’re here, now?”
In the morning, I flew close to her skin
confused at her markings but soaking her in
If I would’ve looked I would have known;
I was too occupied with making a home.
But when the seasons changed, I was forced to see
that my tree was not a tree.
What are you? I asked. But she would not respond
and I heard her weeping as I flew on.
“I’m a tree, a tree,”
she said.