Horizons
I climb the last ashened tree
to scan the horizon, to see what
we have left of the world. Trees
around me are charred matchsticks
from the final fire. No sound rises
from the ashes. Where have the night’s
owls gone, the warblers of the northeast.
Heated streams hide no salamanders.
I look to the skyline; see only civilization’s
skeletons. The sweet scent of ocean is erased
by the oily smell of burning; a sheen floats
on the surface where swordfish jumped.
The once clear midnight blue sky is shrouded
gray-green from the last airplane’s exhaust.
As my last sigh leaves me,
the vultures swoop down to glean
what they can from my decimated body.
No more black flags will sail the skies.
Field Guide Magazine
2024
