Death of the Monarchs
Lester E. Brooks
The old oak trees are weeping
Mourning their lost prestige
Folding their leaves in deep humility.
A great noisy bird
Flying a mission of progress
Dropped a lethal spray upon their crowns.
A rancher wanted more grass
To raise more cattle
To make more money
The grand old monarch must die
They have stood through passing seasons.
Witnessing the cavalcade of change
Their roots deep in the earth
Their heads high in the sun
Building the soils beneath them
They were home for raccoon and squirrel.
Cover for many game birds
Trysts for Indian lovers
Ambush for redskin warriors
Shelter for menaced white man.
They provided fuel for the camper's fire.
Logs for the pioneer's cabin
Shade for weary travelers
Windbreak for pedigreed cattle.
They protected soil and water
Furnished wood for an industrial empire
Browse for deer and longhorn
Beauty for the artist's canvas
Now they are dying.
Not content to let them
Return to the soil
To hold and enrich it
To nourish the grass
That is to replace them
The rancher burns them
Their substance is lost.
We are not opposed to brush control
There is need for pasture improvement
But let us resolve to conserve as well
As the oaks have done before us.
(Reprinted from Sooner State Iris News, March 1973)