— Casey FitzSimons
No longer wild, this redwood glade
cordoned off in public trust.
None here just now, but trails are laid.
Their dust weighs down what thrived in shade;
like grace, it coats the ferns, and crusts
the tender lace where moss shows through.
No raindrop craters pock the dust
though signpost nails are red with rust.
Where horses stamp their piles and strew
their bile-stained straw across the ground,
the heated stench dissolved in dew
has merged with street dirt on my shoes.
The constant hum the traffic’s drowned
the town with in the last decade
from somewhere past the farthest bound
invades the treetops’ rustling sound.