Stump: the base of a tree that has been chopped down or fallen, but is still connected to its roots.

Snag: a standing dead or dying tree; or part of a tree that is dying.

To visit a stump presumed dead
is to find life that comes in many forms.
Mosses and lichens colonize in a manner all their own,
and saplings find a new spot upon which to grow. 

British soldiers crowd the scene,
their red caps marching toward the future
with fruiting spores planning to form 
more of the same. 

In their midst
others who are deflated,
the papery remains of puffball fungi
having already spread their wealth.

And a tiny White Pine
who chose this spot 
upon which to germinate
at least seven years ago.

Stopping beside another stump,
it is not the residents who call this home
that attracts my attention,
but rather the sign of another who had paused here.

Beaver nip sticks, a source of winter food, 
were on display,
the trees from which they came 
now skinny stumps in the background. 

And growing on this stump,
scaly-surfaced trumpets
blaring Irish tunes
for all to lichen. 

The next stump in my survey
had rotted from the inside out
and humus formed within
its castle-like chambers. 

It even had an arched doorway
for leprechauns to enter
or pass into the next world
and the stump itself was leading the way.

There was another, 
which though the wood had already decomposed,
offered a substrate for a few 
to set up housekeeping.

I was struck by the contrast
of a small clump of British Soldiers
on this one, whilst its neighbor
supported an entire army.

And only one small clump 
of Four-tooth Moss,
decorated with raindrops
in a salute to our March weather. 

It's when one takes 
the time to look,
that the tiniest residents
make an appearance.

And so I watched this tiny spider
works its magic 
of building guide lines
and creating a snare in hopes of a grand capture.

Not all stumps in this river-side location
were the result of man's intervention,
for old beaver works
highlighted tree spirits in the curvature of the lines.

Switching my attention to snags
brought the vision 
of more artwork
upon the skeleton of a tree trunk.

And a display of the (w)holiness of this place,
for such were the portals 
carved by beeltes in the past
that had breached the bark. 

Finally, I stood by one mighty snag
that is a marvel of this natural world,
so much of it decomposed
yet replenishing the soil.

Looking skyward from within,
one can see branches 
and marcescent leaves above
speaking to the xylem and phloem still in operation.

What bark is left,
serves as armor for this old oak,
and as scaffolding
upon which mosses and lichens can grasp.

It's what I spy inside,
however, that takes my breath away.
Oddly enough, it is named 
for the breathing structure of another.

And when I compare it to 
the nose of my oldest son's furbaby,
I can see the resemblance, sorta. 
Dog Nose Fungus.

As for stumps and snags, I must give thanks
for they are hardly useless in the landscape,
but rather hosts of many a forest life,
and I'm sure St. Patrick would approve.