Grasses stop swaying and now lie still
For the wind no longer rushes
The birds through the breeze, exhaustedly
Sit the wrens and the family of thrushes

Though too weary to watch or keep
Once watchful eyes awake
They needn’t worry, nothing lurks
Beyond the woods, the field, or the lake

The smooth bending branches that weave
Together intertwined provide a home
For the songbirds that sleep here
Above undergrowth rising from the loam

And what would happen if the owner
Of this land came to chop the grove down?
I pray that he doesn’t, for
This is one of the last sanctuaries in town

The golden finch, the cardinal
The swallow, the mourning dove
Don’t forget the downy woodpecker
All of these I’ve come to love

Where they’d go without the grove
I do not know nor can I say
To another one, I’d assume
Though places like these are slipping away

If my home were chopped down
I’d have nowhere to be
Neither would the chickadee
Who should have rights just like me

They can’t tell the loggers to stop
Timbering their precious lands
It’s up to those who have a voice
Like people—it’s in our hands