Western Red Cedars tower tall, In the southern corner of our place. Not one trunk but seven form the base. Green in Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall. Guarding secrets beyond recall. Its red bark harbors tales untold, Indigenous rites from days of old Sacred survival where-with-all; Ropes, clothes and food; prehistory. Grey squirrels who chased away the red Now chatter, “Cedars, tell your mystery?” The wind stirs boughs, but not a word is said. I listen to the cedars sigh as branches sway. And only hear, “My secrets never fade away.”