Poem #8—Beetle

A lake in the woods of the eastern slopes of the Rockies. A green-hued shallow so clear that brown beavers in the middle shine to a howl of wolves deeper in the bush than a tree scraped of bark by grizzly bear.

My rib bones hurt from a nap on needles all afternoon as a pine root emerged within a dream against my chest. I say this all, but only the truest parts are lies

— like the white wolf whose running leaps so large broke dead pine and rotten logs like an elk —a blue whip of Weyerhaeuser ribbons sipping green homes of red squirrel like tea.

They read: timber for the burbs. Enjoy your stay in Mother Earth’s last iridescent verse.