A poem for Wednesday

I make a living from the land. Actually, the past few years I've made a living selling land. Mostly farms and woods, and mostly to people who were looking to "have a place in the country." It is, for the most part, an enjoyable job. And I was fortunate to be able to make quite a few sales. Things were going so well that I quit my original profession (forestry) to devote all my time to real estate.

And then about a year ago the recession hit. Land sales slowed, then virtually stopped. I started looking for forestry jobs until thing "picked back up", but there were none to be found. After several months of no income, I was able to find some contract work marking timber for a friend of mine. Low pay, but I was thankful for it. I wrote a bit of somewhat whiney poetry about my experience:

Timber Marker

I walk this Russell County tract hemmed in:
Lumber baron land to the north,
Old Federal Road on the east,
Paper company clearcut to the south,
U.S. 51 on the west.

Twenty years as a forester.
Master of Science.
Returned and reduced by Obamanomics
to entry-level woods work.
This is my bailout.

I make my mark on this landscape
one tree at a time.
One pull of the paint gun trigger and
a sixty year old loblolly pine
Is sentenced to a short stay on death row.

These woods are a story that only a forester can read.
Current condition--species, size quality
A reflection of timber cutting in previous economies.
Someone's need to pay down a loan or
a grandchild became the first in the family to go to college.

My story will be here for the next thirty years.
Hidden in the trees that I spared
And in the open spaces of those I did not.

As a footnote, I'm happy (and very thankful) to say that I've been rehired as a forester by the company I originally left for full time land sales. I will also continue my attempts to sell land. Hopefully things will get better soon economically for all of us.