The Day a Rabbit Fell Out of a Tree
In Lot 30,
next to the Corn Lot,
I started shooting parrots
out of a eucalyptus.
I hit one on my first shot–
it crashed
through the branches
and thudded
head first on the ground.
Then, behind me,
I heard a flapping of wings
and turned around quickly
only to see a rabbit
fall out of another tree
and thump listlessly upon a root
sticking up from the base of the trunk.
How strange.
Was this a sign?
If I were Roman, Trojan, or Greek,
I am sure I would believe so.
I examined the rabbit.
It was limp and still warm
but there was no blood,
only a long slash
like a talon might make
on its side,
its muscles and ribs exposed.
Now, either a hawk dropped it,
frightened by my shotgun blast,
or Diana was playing with me.
Distant Trees
“I don’t understand why distance
must be measured in nonnegative
numbers.”
The thicker part of the Wood
Has been cut
And becomes thicker still.
“If I face north,
distance to the south
is behind me.”
Every trunk branches
Ten times, and each branch becomes a tree,
Even though painted with herbicide and oil.
“Which way to the Hope Ranch?”
“Oh you go back the way you came.
Ten kilometers.”
The Post Maker lied.
The bad wood has returned.
Worse and without trails.
“Yesterday I walked all the way
to the Wood from my ranchhouse: 3 kilometers,
then back again: 6 kilometers in total
(or is that zero since I walked back
on the same azimuth?)
Yesterday I walked to the Wood.
Yesterday I walked back.
Yesterday I walked.
Yesterday.”
I want to return to the Wood,
To the way it was.
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