At first, there is nothing
but the sound of
breaking branches—

until there is an engine,
a dusty hearse, a line
turning the corner,

car after car, the police leading the way
onto the Raccoon Lake [main exit],
all accompanied by a flag, all too like

a man burning a tree
for the sake
of insects,

before it is too late—
before he burns too deep and
their faces become something like

a cemetery of lakes, passing
waves of buffalo on a
solitary farm.

The green and brown of
grass to fur, of moss to
lake and sand. They release

their flags in a line
over the water; they release their skin,
as if it were a way

of communicating through
tree frogs, the purr left over
on the water, the low hum

hanging on burning trees.


One thought on “When the Leaf Lifts, It Falls and Leaves Behind a Fossil of Water.

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