Sentinel

A scalpel perfect edge
to the grassy rut
slippery as the truth

formed of dense black pine trees
thin like wrought iron, like a curtain
darkest at the bottom
where it gathers moisture

strong yet brittle, unusually still
A smokey fog moves like a tired ghost
betraying the passage of time

The wall of trees seems impossibly tall
Their tops fade into an omnipresent grey
All trunks no branches like burnt matchsticks
like nature’s monument to its unbridled rage
a victory over itself