I awake each morning
to the sound of progress,
the beep-beep of diesel engines
as bulldozers raze the earth,
clearing pasture land clean.
Watching the bulldozers play,
back and forth, back and forth,
like kids toys they move
land, the last sanctuary,
of prairie left near me.
Within the last forest vestige,
I heard coyote howls nightly,
echoing nostalgic vibes,
as the embrace my memories.
Now, that will be gone;
the last animals will leave,
refugees fleeing a war
of concrete, tract houses, and parks.
There is no escape,
and I will forget there ever was
a forest view from my window.
Only the memories will remain,
faint glimpses in my dreams.

By Carl Wade Thompson

Carl Wade Thompson is a poet, essayist, and the graduate writing tutor at Texas Wesleyan University. He has published poetry and memoir essays in The Mayo Review, The Concho River Review, One in Four, Anak Sastra, The Galway Review, The Blue Collar Review, Piker Press, The Eunoia Review, Blue Minaret, Nebo Literary Magazine, Alphelion Literary Webzine, and Labor: Studies in Working-Class History of the Americas. He lives on the outskirts of Fort Worth, Texas. His poems explore the link between the urban and the rural.

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