Out where the railroad's arrow-straight
And flat as a line on plywood,
Rails stretch for ruthless miles.
Trees stretch too, for sun,
And try to reclaim their native land.
The railroad, proud Pharaoh,
Has won for now.
It owns the land--the timber, too.
But wait a thousand years (if you have them),
And my money's on the trees.
He breaks me down on every side, and I am gone,
and my hope has he pulled up like a tree.
Then shall the trees of the forest sing for joy before the LORD,
for he comes to judge the earth.
--1 Chronicles 16:33
Poem and photo ©2010 James L. Swindle