The army of beards and flannel
March in step toward the tree line
To combat the wooden menace,
Leaving ladies and lookers behind.
The loggers line the limited plain
Between themselves and the trunks
Where tooth by tooth they’ll top the trees
To expose the sky far up above.
As limbs and branches crash to Earth
The ceiling starts to expand.
The sun that once was blotted out
Now bathes this unknown land.