Campbell Man

He had always been there, as ancient as the soil that he loved.

Apricots, twisted bleeding, crying trees were in morning for they knew what was to come.

Primeval, dying yellow, rusted, spiked monstrosity he rode like a king, turning the land.

I watched from a hole in the redwood fence.

On his knees he scooped the earth in his hands, raised them to his face and breathed deep.

An ecstasy overtook him; he was a child again among  the trees.

Glass and steel raged about him, asphalt and concrete smothered most of the world he knew.

Out of tune, dying synchronicity in the guise of progress could not buy his land.

So it stole it.

Their roots deep, the crying olden trees stood defiantly but were no match for the diesel army.

Only his tears fell the day the orchard of crying trees died.
 
No one cared for the man that impeded progress and soon like the obstinate orchard before him, he too departed the earth brokenhearted and alone.