Sacred native forests
remain enraptured in souls
shadowing mysterious nature’s silence.

Or when so deluged and brisk winded,
stormed to rage wild absence of restraint
overpowering more domesticated sounds of commodifying busyness,
diesel fueled 18-wheelers
carrying walky-talky caffeine flying drivers,
warning blares of commerce’s trains
for those without bodies and brains
to move away from rumbling dust river of busy tracks.

Native forests
speak sacred wilderness power through all five senses.
I cannot see a sacred forest
singing I Did It My Way,
or My Way Or The HighWay
appropriate anthems in their less bird-songed place, yes,
but not sacred lusty psalms of organic notes
for and from native forests,
where sacred sights
sound naturally right
and smell absent of stinky busy fright,
and taste and feel recycling peace.