Too Long

In the south of France, or Provence, this is true. We have been here too long.

        Too Long
I look out at the land around me
Cleared fields
Forests of oak trees
Second growth
At least
Clothed in the brown of winter.

Just look--
You'll find the signs
Of human presence
For years beyond count
Everywhere.

The ancient terassing walls
For olive trees
Dead or overgrown
With weeds
Falling down.

The stone stuctures
Whole, or simply
Piles of
Memory filled stones.

There are hardly
Any animals here
But birds
--listen to them sing--
and insects
and humans.

We've been here
Too long.
This land needs a rest.

Leave it to the birds
And that squirrel
My mother was surprised to see.

To the wild pig
--Even they have been touched by us,
no longer all wild
bred with real pigs
to be hunting prizes-
Whose tracks
Of hoof and snout
You'll see
Up in the mountains
Out my window.

But no one will here this
But the birds
And the wind.
No one will leave.
They will just
Keep coming
This land
Half dead
Will die.