End of the Powerline (2)

I've seen no other trees with memories like these
trees spread thick across the ground.
They are a yearly or so cause for chainsaw sounds and crunching of leaves under bark -
ants running frantic under the weight.
Heavy snows mean the drive is showered in still
branches hanging low with cold water driving all west and east
as we continue mostly south, unbroken snow.
Created old and living, the forest moves in the wind
honestly, consistent, pulling everything into it.
Trails broken by animals, creatures of habit
more than I could imagine
until I traced their well worn paths that afternoon in autumn
curving around brush, past inevitable fireweed and into the beyond, farther than I had meant to go that day.
falling over the tracks of what I had as a friend and laying
under the stars I found I was crying for home
harmonizing with coyotes, feathering the sky with our northern lights, sounds.