The climb was steep so I paused a while,
To give my horse a break.
In a glade of an ancient Douglas fir,
On the ridge above Stuart Lake.
Nearly every where I look from here,
I see vast tracts of bug killed pine,
Planted after they logged the fir,
To speed up the next harvest time.
They can blame on global warming,
But I think itís got more to do with greed,
That destroyed a pristine habitat,
And replaced it with a weed.
Thereís a story of survival,
A lesson to be learned,
In the fire scars of an ancient fir,
Been scorched ten times,
But never burned!
Other articles by Mike Puhallo