I'm reading John Vaillant's book, The Golden Spruce: A True Story of Myth, Madness, and Greed, in which he presents much vividly detailed history of British Columbian Forestry and the socioeconomic, environmental, cultural, and moral conflicts that arise from it still. To start chapter four, Vaillant includes this poem, by Donald A. Fraser, "adapted by Margaret Horsfield". The notes of what we now know as a misguided manifest destiny echo through the song. And while, on Ailsa's house, we're being mindful in our materials selection and means of acquisition, we must, as we contemplate our link with centuries of foresters, sawyers, and builders, consider our place in the great balance.
The Song of the Axe
I am the tooth of the human race,
Biting its way through the forest vast,
Chip by chip, and tree by tree,
'Til the fields gleam forth at last,
Eating its heart with keen delight,
Into the groaning tree I bite.
Every stroke the land doth bless,
And joy o'erflows the wilderness.
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