An Unmaking

At dawn, we stand feet on fire against the sand,
blowing ghosts into the climbing orb of day.
This morning the tower boys are deconstructing the FBI 400 footer,
which has stood in the forest for a lifetime.
Her light has been silenced and she stands among the trees
as if she were one of them, instead of a crochet of steel.
They cut her guy-wires, but she does not fall, she bends the
tip of her spine as if looking at the men who scramble at her feet,
walkie-talkies a new bird song.
It takes a long time in the January cold
to tighten her wires. . . tension and rust:
It is age which overcomes her, so intent on her duty to stand
still and straight and strong in Silver River State Park
that her spine finally breaks
and she folds herself through the sharp morning air
not like a shot bird or a tree dying
but softly...twisting upon herself to rest
among her family for generations now of foliage.