Rot is crawling in a log like a bug riot by the fire pit. I sit and read whatever I choose as news, but it doesn’t sit well. When I was allotted land, the first thing I did was cut a path and crop a field. The wood stove burns what doesn’t build my home. Inside, buds on stem are arraigned by a vase for their sheared beauty, and in the fireplace, shine cackles. Smoke clouds up and out where the sun beams on the prettiest trees to show my privacy. Nearby, a water wheel winds-up the river, and now, the tributaries can only find mud. Streams are pressured into steam. Every trap is set free. Animals come to drink, but the wires they trip trigger revelations, so I shoot only scavengers come to kill some catch in a cage. The prey of my prey can limp away. Let that be the will of the wild. I’m breaking news with rock. There’s open-source farmland in the unpaved city. Without a plot, I plant my shovel, do what I can like the sun. Caves dwell on the potential, but I staple flyers on trunks, hike or bike through glades as if I’m never far from where I go, and sacrifice the flares. From afar and above, Google Earth can hardly understand what’s going on, so I ask that it save me from direction.
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