They took the plane tree down last week. I think

it must have stood there since the Black Hawk War,

near Davenport Street by the red-brick church.

It left behind a vacancy of sky

as broad as its green shade. Apparently

the hazard was too great to let it stand

another stormy spring. Not mine to judge

the wisdom of it. I’ll just miss the tree.

Who’ll take responsibility? Not I.

My job is to observe, record, and store

up images, convert them into ink,

and when a draft is done resume the search.

Who, scribe or sawyer, is the purer drudge?

The sycamore is down that stood there, grand.