So my dad wrote this piece of literary brilliance for the Left Angle trees. May they rest in peace.
A Dirge for Left Angle Trees
Long ago it seems, in a time of narrow long skis,
There was place, high on a mountainside.
It was a serene place, where winds did not cut
Where snow lay deep and soft ‘twixt the trees
There lay slim glades where one could pass,
Long narrow slices of snowy bliss
amid the branches, heavy with snow.
For long years this place stood,
Welcoming winter visitors
into its steep powdery havens.
“Come,” whispered the trees
“We are the guardians,
In here, the wind will not pack the snow,
the sun will not crust it.”
In hushed and reverent tones
mere humans spoke of Left Angle Trees.
Then one summer came the Woodsman.
“I will make this place better,” he declared.
“I will cut many trees and soon all
Will be able to enjoy this snowy feast!”
And so he cut many trees, and stripped many branches.
By summer’s end, the steep forest was riven
with paths, glades and clearings.
“HURRAH!” shouted many voices,
“We shall all be able to ride, ski and play
in this new and exciting place.”
“OH NO!” cried the voices of a few.
“What have you done!? It is too steep,
It is too long. The trees are all needed!”
“NONSENSE!” bellowed the Woodsman,
“Look at what I have created;
it is much better this way.”
And so they came; the masses of steel and p-tex
crushing the cut branches and trunks into the mountain,
widening the glades and stretching the open places.
For years the mountain rested, the raw gashes
in her beautiful living green garments a testament
to the Woodsman.
Then one spring, from the ridge above the trees
a slough of snow began,
gathering weight and power
as it hissed toward Left Angle Trees.
“PREPARE!” shouted the trees to each other.
“We have stood for hundreds of years, we will prevail!”
“Link your boughs; gather together; for the onslaught is coming!”
But the boughs could not link; the trunks could not form their Phalanx.
They were now too few, they were now too scattered.
One by one, and in small clusters, fell the trees
The gathering infernal of snow overcoming all that stood in its path.
Giants of centuries, proud survivors of the mountain harshness,
fell at last, fighting alone against the crushing battery of snow.
The slopes of Armegaddon lay at last silent,
Stripped of every living tree
All hurled into a mass grave, broken, torn and dying.
“I HAVE WON!” shouted the Woodsman,
“Not a tree remains to frighten the timid!
All is clear and bare and beautiful.”
“WE HAVE WON!” clamored the masses,
“We have a new slope, clear and bare
and beautiful! Let us make moguls.”
“NO!” howled the wind,
“I Have Won!”
“I will scour away your soft snow,
I will pack your powder into ice.”
“NO!” rumbled the mountain,
“I Have Won!”
“I will send snow ripping down your bare open slopes,
trees will not grow here again.
My rocks and earth and ice will remain.”
“We Have Lost.” Cried the Left Angle Trees,
exhaling their last breaths from the shards and trunks
crushed together in their final resting place.
“We could not stand”
“We were too scattered”
“We were too few”
“We were too few.”