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Felling the forest the old people would
send it hurtling down the hills via chutes

until it hit the stream. They'd release the dam
where water did the rest. It was native timber

that went through the valley. Thousands of years
trussed like chicken for spars and yards.

Think of the funds one log would get for our
marae now! Thousands of dollars. There are a few

still on the ridge, hidden from us by their distance,
they ride the land like great stags with full antlers.

We are given a Clayton's choice: give them the chop,
or sell something else, and you all know what that is!


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