In an aspen forest trees are molting, more dead than alive and shedding where they should remain shrouded. Dandelions close as dark comes and the bees go. Most of the trees are dying, the soil too dry to nourish roots and the beetles hollowing the trunks multiplying. Once, you ran down to the stream in this forest and found a cow lying bloated and belly sideways on the bank. You didn’t scream, just grabbed your nose and stared at the huge animal, your tiny feet stamping up and down with nerves. Now the riverbank is ashen soil. Fires that ravaged the forests came and were forgotten, came and were forgotten, came and will come and be forgotten again. You walk through the forest and watch the sun die behind the already dead trees. How did we come to this place where it seems it must be you or the land? Clear as the aspens yellow in the last sun: you or the land or you or the land or you or the land or you.
