when a fire burns in the hollow
of an ancient sequoia
sit beside her
hear the sounds that aren’t calling
the warblers, the ravens— the jays
six years back, a hermit thrush
lured you through the arid bramble
and left you
floating in a lake of redwood spires
now watch the empty spaces
while you sink your hands in still-warm soil
clean the bone
of a desiccated wild cat
and hold the ruin
of a sapling
curled into a blackened rib
then, you can carve your epitaph
into ashen waters
and feel the wind
delivering the weightless dust
of a forest
