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By John I. Blair

Thatís what I say
When I see a dead limb
On an old tree,
High overhead,
With rot at its heart.

It can cling for years,
Biding its fall;
Then, with no alarm,
Rush to the ground
And crush all beneath.

A spate of wind,
A drift of snow,
Sometimes just fate
Will break it free;

And a woodsman brave
Striding down the trail
May meet his end
When this mighty arm
Elects to descend.

©2003 John I. Blair

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