Wilderness
By Paul Vermeersch
There are no witnesses here. Nothing happens.
Even when the rotted, long-dead larch
finally snaps and topples, it’s not official.
Nowhere in particular, no one sees
a greasy carcajou hunkered in an erne’s nest
dining on grey eggs. Driven by tongue and gut
to the aerie in the tall pine, it has clambered
high enough to seed this morning’s cloudbanks
with a sour musk. There is no hate or anger
anywhere that can make it stop. No one sees
the erne diving out of the fused red sky,
so it doesn’t happen. The air never detonates
above the valley. All the hills around the river
do not erupt in crownfire. There are no witnesses.
