Painters painting in a row
Where untamed colossuses did once grow.
Redwoods soaring skyward slow.
Colossuses absent. The painters don't know.
Instead, here roses and here a hedgerow.
But where did the redwoods go?
Hints linger from long ago.
They whisper that Big River’s flow
Was choked by redwoods cut low.
Corpses in flumes stacked head to toe
Shot down to mills far below
Then planed and stacked row upon row.
Today there are no colossuses to show
So perhaps the painting I will forgo
Art can't capture the depth of my woe.