By Nelson Tinnel 

On a barren hill all alone 
clings a tiny oak to a jagged stone

The loggers came with wheel and claw
No longer they use the axe and saw

No more the horse with chain and hook
with blade and claw the earth they took

They stripped the land and scarred its skin
deep to the stone like a wounded thing
with fractured bone

The trees, their roots were its veins
and now the streams their blood stains

This tiny oak, will it stand?
for 100 years on this barren land

Can its seed find root on this skeletal rock
till men come again and seem to mock
the laws of God that they forgot