Retaliation

Ashes of trees shroud the neighborhood,
a fresh dusting every morning
rises from the jaws of the bulldozers.
Wendell, determined to keep his car shiny
returns to his driveway
with sponge, hose and bucket.
I'm sitting Shiva with the forest
next to the three brawny machines
in the clean dirt swath they've
rolled out like a carpet
not at all like the junkyard heap
of a forest floor.
I can't tell what's the wind
or the creek or the moan of the freeway
between gusts of silence.
In the middle dozer's windshield
there's a bullseye-shaped crack
where the Earth, resilient, feisty
old bitch that she is
kicked a stone into the Goliath's eyes.