By Allison Lee

The man commences with the first cut—
Down the primitive torso of tree,
In the heart of static forest.
The resounding flow of gaping silence
Convinces himself camouflaged,
Under the canopy of bleached leaves
And mottled clouds.
His ears colossal yet fruitless,
Unaware of the baleful eyes
Penetrating each inch
Of his solemn vessel.
The scutters of insect legs,
The cultivated strides of the keen fox,
The flutters of birds
Bough to bough,
On grounds of passage upholding learned centuries
Of an ecosystem on scarce equilibrium—
Tethered to the steadfast melodies of the crows
In their daily chants
As the sky becomes bruised,
Weaving the pinnacles of ambition
Into syrup
For their kin’s saturation.

What a paradox it is, peaceful genocide.
The veracity of his cut
Issues a gravity
Forced upon each living member.
They, united in the impending deaths
Of their livelihoods
On land as scathed
As the blistered terrain of his knuckles
Lay imprisoned
Behind his barbaric bars.

The man rests on the fallen trunk
Awaiting the turbulence to ensue.

–

Allison Lee is a high school Junior in Southern California with a dedication to supporting the environment and taking on new adventures. She loves to read, write, argue, fence, and soak in the sun. You can find her drinking matcha or wandering in a Trader Joe’s.