The way the tree is trimmed
reminds me of acacias
from childhood issues
of National Geographic.
Fitting, then, that the grass—
brown, brittle, unmoving—
resembles the savanna,
a tinderbox waiting
on a careless spark.
The fires will come,
cleansing the forests.
The tornadoes too,
arriving more often
than they used to.
Rain feels like a rumor now,
a ghost of bygone springs,
and will stay that way
until hurricane season returns—
earlier each year,
less patient,
less forgiving.
The Truth About Tigers 