At dawn, we stand feet on fire against
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
as if she were one of them, instead of a crochet of
They cut her guy-wires, but she does not fall, she
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
still and straight and strong in Silver River State
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.