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.
