where the midnight sun
lingers at the peak
in a northern place;
a quiet space
to let the world
pass over.
the pylons stand like
dryads in the snow,
the wires of fate
strung them together.
herds of creatures left
behind clusters of prints.
remaining patches grazed
down to the ice, the
soil frozen in time to
provide an ice-bound
grave for stiff worms
where their bodies dissolve.
winding backroads, a
graveyard of trees
where their brothers
burn and smoke blankets
the auburn sky — but
not for the last time.