Trying to recreate words lost in the recent death of my hard drive (and overly old backup files). Writers beware: back up your data. (Or risk having to recreate. I think the following might be better than what I had, but there was too much angst in the process of loss.)
Years before, opportunity had stolen most of the trees. Bend, snap, cut went the rhythm of thieves. Wood mill. Trees sometimes fall naturally into water, storms come and leave their messes behind, but these logs were felled too fast, unnatural, and shipped down the river, money to be made. They’d grow back, some said, but forgot to plant seedlings, no thought beyond the next greed-meal. Just along the river, a few bushes remained in the thin trickle of lush.