De construction

The bright orange flagging has been up for years, marking the block boundaries.

I'd walk among the trees and the moss and the mushrooms knowing they were doomed.

In January the rumblings began.

When we finally ventured up our icy road, I could feel the emptiness before I saw it.

A lone pickup was parked off our road, probably the driver of the machine that has levelled the landscape.

It's February now, we can hear them in the darkness - they'll have to pack up and leave soon before the mud gets bad.

They'll burn their slash piles, filling our space with billowing smoke and ash, then they'll be gone.

Two ravens fly overhead looking down, heads swiveling.

Driving through the forest from home. Heading for town. The forest that we knew.