I lay beneath the sky, tracing the birds' paths,
a gentle breeze caressing my fingers,
but even as they fly in their home,
the sky trembles, unsure of where to rest,
the clouds break like fractured glass,
the breeze whispers a story I can’t hear,
and the birds, high above,
are no longer safe.

The sky
is no longer safe.

I see a figure
moving towards a cedar tree;
a gleam of steel
its hands steady,
an illusion of a shadow
long and ready;
the cedar’s roots tremble,
its branches ache
in silent witness,
but the soil beneath it
seems to scream,
and I wonder,
how many more cuts will it endure?

The cedar, too,
is no longer safe.

It saw me; I can’t run
the shadow of...