Once a canopy, now sheaves of shredded
leaves. Night writhed in crusted ice,
laminated trunks and limbs, gutted the forest’s
plexus. Trees fell like sky, like bombs
rutting turf. Now forest tends its gashes,
labors to fend off pine beetles, reverts
to the hush of grassland. Someday stands
of thick timber will anchor the stars again,
leaf-whisper overstory to the feral moon.