IN EXCHANGE Thumbs in suspenders; smug, log-hard face, the old logger stands, and from the edge of his time surveys a clearing of bleeding stumps: his handiwork. On surrounding hills, torn patches of earth's sagging face leave him unmoved, his attitude unchanged. With the cold eye of the predator, he calculates the worth of one remaining tree at the far edge of the clearing-- a fleeting life, struggling alone, needles falling silently as tears from an orphan in the path of someone else's war... He hefts the chainsaw to take this last life, but as suddenly falls dead in his own killing fields, his heart giving out, tired of the noise, the killing: another wasted life in a wasteland of its own making. Among the wreckage, in an evening’s freshening breeze, the logger's son falls to his knees, weeps silently, his tears, long held back, fall freely on this broken land: are they for the father lying dead at the morgue-- or for himself, now able to see the works of greed? In fading shadows, his haunted space comes alive: he hears his mother’s voice and unheeded advice: "Never take any life for foolish pleasure or greed, son. Take but what you need with constant gratitude for such is understood and permitted. In exchange learn to give of yourself also."