The speaker stands in a patch of woods where a tree came down in a snowstorm twenty-five years ago. The only clock left is moss, which has quietly covered the spot. Even after a chainsaw cut the tree up, the silence feels as large as ever, as if the noise did nothing to the quiet.
The middle of the poem lists the forces that shape a forest: windthrow, ice storm, blizzard. Then comes a wistful question about the canopy gaps "of yesteryear." The speaker seems to wonder where the openings in the trees have gone, since the forest has healed over them. Time has filled in what once felt like a wound.
The ending turns gentler. A single small bird is imagined as the one to "salvage" all those logs, which is a funny, tender idea, because it can't possibly manage it. Then the winter wren's song arrives. The mood is calm and reflective, with a touch of loss, but it settles into quiet acceptance: the forest keeps going, and a little voice carries on in it.