Where the fires had bronzed the warships,
she could hear, inside his damaged lungs,
the town of Amana. Perfectly built
of coral and peeling red madrone. The forest near
the ghosts and the calendars was exquisite.
No surprise the birds cannot stop laughing, she thought,
tickling and pecking each other among damp leaves
while sprouts rise and die and a nearby
worm calls to them: the vibration twisting
down the trail, trimming and weakening till
it turns to crystal, like the last stop at the station.
Photo By: USFWS
