Out tapping maple trees
on my neighbors farm
moving from tree to tree
hammering in high tech pipeline
thinking how things have changed
Gone are the Indians who
boiled in wooden troughs
Gone are the buckets
where the tap tap of sap
played their own maple rap
Yet I still see the awe
of what remains the same
The forest grove of maple trees
The fresh deep pearl white snow
The tracks of wild animals
on the go
but most of all
I feel and hear
the silence of the woods
which is just as good
just as gold
as those days of old
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