We watched, sadly horrified
when little human-things
took down Lokisson--one fine
oak with humors unusual.
"I lean over their rock-paths,
put down by these silly
human-things: they look up
fearful, ignorant of my
deep-rooted stability."
He would laugh at his humor.
If only he were stable 
as his roots! No.
Humor's ultimate end:
fearful, weak-full, they attack
first. Angry, snarling chainsaws 
bit from all sides, ganged up,
velociraptors hunting
arboreal prey. We knew 
their type from so long ago.
Elephant-bellows issued
from metal contraptions which
looked vaguely tree-like, screaming
their masters' fears skyward, their
cries sometimes oddly resembling 
bugling elks we heard in times
before. Lokisson's beautiful
limbs disappeared first, fed
into hungry maws, exiting
pulverized to bits. Metal 
sheets rang thunder to our sky.
Then...section by section...his
segments fell, crashing, loudly
cutting off his jokes forever.
We cannot laugh through our hurt,
perhaps won't for many seasons.

For two days afterward our
living sky cried and grumbled.