Here in these special places
the shadow of the last tree fall
across a poisoned lake
like a stiff corpse on a steely slab.
In the light of too many fading moons
a loon crawls sick across an oil slick
and slips its heavy feathered coat
over a heavy- metal slope.

I hear mourning songs,
a thick and stupid hope
from deep within
a collective throat.
A warm wind blows the dusty breath
of death across the wet lands
we hide the slime of mines
and send our tendrils deeper
to last lost lake of gold