Out south, walking the far mist
I am, this morning—looking off
to the Ghost Forest, the ancient
legacy of a monster wave,
cracked in the earth, Japan,
And rolling here—out there,
the fogged forest, where dead
trees tell their story, a force so
great, they are washed clean,
salt-poisoned, skeletal.
Meanwhile, the same mist
glides the dead red cedar grove,
And a Kingfisher chitters—“you there, get out!”
