The radio spoke NPR.
Some issue, some angled view
seeped into the kitchen.
Hot, the first cup steamed promise.
Wisps of night’s wraiths lay
in the near canyon grove.
I would work there today.
Setting day gears, releasing mental
handbrakes, the day lay before.
A chainsaw, wedges, glasses.
Earplugs, sap-bloody gloves
loaded, readied, the night before.
A month past a stroke of electricity
spun down, girdling and killing
a pine, eighty years, stopped life
suddenly, flared brief flames,
shouted agony in thunder’s echo.
The quiet voice from the counter
began to speak of rainforest and loss.
Perfect inflection, careful words,
Damnation.
Beside the pine, hand pressed
to an oozing stripe, bolt’s path,
I spoke, described the forest need,
but, could not explain the Amazon.
--John-David H., 67
