the dead are not like us
they come in simpler shapes
with worm-eaten hearts
hot for fire, whisper the oaks
in the curling litter of their leaves
under yellowing bracken
a weasel out hunting at dawn
sounds as loud as a deer
on the ridgetops a slow dry rain
of caterpillar droppings
as the cloudless sky whitens
with ash from Canada
no wonder so many insects
seem drawn to my sweat
and a hummingbird comes
each morning to drink from the hose
my deep-mulched garden
will die when my well runs low
but not before I’ve been crowned
emperor of toads
