NH Suite

III.

The native phenomenon is a matter

Of delight –the clouds’ daily descent

From shoulders of privy mountains

To the nape of the valley, shredding,

Along the way, then settling over the forest

In a scatter, like a torn loaf of bread.  

I look outside the window –while you

Are spooning strawberries onto your waffle –

And see the bombast of peaks, almost silvery

Under the gaze of sunlight, and notice the forest’s

Green façade capped, completely, in smoke. I imagine,

At once, a devastation – a fire, eating roots

Of the galinsoga vines, chomping bells

Of pearly white tobacco flowers, ripping the prickly

Racks of firs; its flames inching forward

In an ashen hiss of riot. But, I am wrong –

I learn, from an attendant, that a cloud

Fell asleep on the bed of trees

And is just now waking up, stretching.