The Degradation

This is a war. I watch my friends fall and wonder if I'll be next. With every thump of their solid centers hitting the ground I shake with the increasing wind that roars without my brothers to slow it down. Every crackle of a twig threatens to reveal the machete en the samurais of the sequoia. I watch the loose earth blow away without the roots of my brothers to hold it in place. The sloths squint in the sunlight searching for the asylum of a magnificent canopy of leaves and moving on; the great migration to the remaining forest. I silently wish them luck but know they won't have any. The machete men are coming more often more of them each time and each time less of us.