The wall of stones marches
on, straight as an
arrow into the infinity
of forest.
It does not care for
tree or trail, for it was
here before their birth.
It stands as a mark
of Adam’s dominion
flowing through
New England farmers’ veins.
Like human bulldozers
they wrestled with stone
to make an altar to
private property and agriculture,
their own immovable
political philosophy,
which has seen presidents and kings
come and go,
come and go.
Now it stands a mere memorial
in the midst of nature’s
take-back-the-neighborhood campaign,
intransigent and venerable,
it has earned its steady place
in the detritus of trees.