Overnight November frost leaves a glaze of transparent ice,

glare of an invisible sheet that covers mica-like Moissanite

glittering in morning sunlight on Brinkerhoff Boulevard.

A relentless growl of chainsaws heard up and down the hill,

century old Maples and Oaks heaved aside

with a deadening whomp, sliced into sections

like chunks of bologna revealing tell-tale rings of age,

quivering markers bleeding amber drops of resin.

Like some oak whose blood runs golden when a branch is torn.

A grinding wood-chipper sputters and whirrs

pulverizing branches into mounds of sawdust

lining the curb like the flag- draped coffins of soldiers

home from another fruitful war.

An irate housewife lunges in front of a tree, pleading:

“Why are you doing this? How will we breathe?”

An oaf with sap- stained scratched knuckles barks:

“I don’t have to breathe anymore!

In a halo of smoke and oil the bleary- eyed redneck

drags chains, shoving branches into blades

of a crunching machine in a feeding frenzy of chopped off limbs.

From upstairs windows, residents stop and stare

at denuded streets that just yesterday were a grove of stately trees.

Caryatids of Dr. Malone’s mansion, lone witnesses to the carnage;

the road is now barren and birdless, - developers had their way.

Crestfallen grackles assemble in silence on wires vibrating in the wind.