With a hammer’s claw
I drew two nails out of the fallen sentinel—
beech tree, lying across the way—
freeing the trail-sign it wore in uprightness,

for transfer to a standing neighbor.

Next I dragged the newly-horizontal
out of the way of hikers, to recline and rot
into a different usefulness.

Last, I attached the sign
onto its new host, economically employing
the same two nails, one of them bent,
and left the tree to its obligation of guidance.

No beech, the chosen one
bled a little with this new responsibility—

to caution those who flee
the fleshpots of suburbia toward a promise
of uplands flowing with runoff
and the honeyed tones of mating songbirds:

“Unless you mean to bushwhack
your way through unaccustomed wilderness,
you need to turn precisely here.”

– Russell Rowland