Rain is soaking into the soil, and into our skin. Deep red, the soil mourns spilled blood. Young trees stand at watch over the stumps of their elders. The trees are weeping. Look closely – the water seeping down trunks, filtering through moss and lichen and fern blades. Great violence was done here. No longer seen are Marbelled Murellet wings, no Red Tree Voles high in the canopy, no wolves or elk, bear or cougar or beaver, no spotted owls. No cedars or hemlock or fir scraping at the sky. Each drop of rain is full of sadness, gathering in the soil, staining it red.