quiet, the trees at night
stolen by the dark silhouettes of men.
Such a strange peace,
the empty sky.
And the men so quietly moved
black walnut trunks
to the edge of the world,
transformed dark wood
into the sleek handles of rifles.
Where they were
the air is thin.
The rain,
I could climb it up to the sky.
Vacant places where the dark
vertebraes of trees
pushed sugar
rising up from trunks.
They held crows
in their branches
feathers scorched black.
The wings took shape
in the air around us.
Trees whose wood flash
light. Trees, beautiful trees
who can kill a man
like the fallen wings of crows.