The Master Gardener as the Rider on a Pale Horse

“Birches are such fragile trees;
my, my, just look at these,”
the master gardener said while
standing on the balcony
looking as if looking for falcons to see.
“We get some red tail hawks not falcons you see,”
I said, “and everyone just gawks and gawks
but back to the birch trees,
if you please.
Is there anything that can be done
about these four?
Can we save even one?”
“You can save three
for now, it seems to me,
but time and global warming
will kill the others,” he said as a warning.
“Global warming is killing the birch trees?”
“Ah, yes, and after that — you and me.”
“Seriously!”
“Oh, and there will be far fewer red
tails in the hawk family,
so gawk and gawk
with your friends and family
while you still can and now
here is my consultation fee;
I have to make hay while hay
is to be made before the end
comes for you and me, ”
he said as he rode away
on a pale horse.

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