By the newly bulldozed logging road, for a hundred yards,
I saw the sprawling five-foot hemlocks, their branches crammed
Into each other’s light; upended or wrenched aslant
Or broken across waists the size of broomsticks
Or bent, crushed slewfoot on themselves in the duff like briars,
Their roots coming at random out of the dirt, and dying.

I had no burlap in the trunk, not even a spade,
And the shirt off my back wasn’t enough to go around.
I’m no tree surgeon, it wasn’t Arbor Day, but I climbed
Over the free-for-all, untangling winners and losers
And squeezing as many as I could into my car.
When I started, nothing was singing in the woods except me.

I hardly had room to steer—roots dangled over my shoulder
And scraped the side of my throat as if looking for water.
Branches against the fog on the windshield dabbled designs
Like kids or hung out on the vent. The sun was falling down.
It’s against the law to dig up trees. Working against
Time and across laws, I drove my ambulance

Forty miles in the dark to the house and began digging
Knee-deep graves for most of them, while the splayed headlights
Along the highway picked me out of the night.
A fool with a shovel searching for worms or treasure,
Both buried behind the sweat on his forehead. Two green survivors
Are tangled under the biting rain as I say this.