on a balmy first of March
the trees’ shadows barely rustle
in the ridgetop breeze
an odor of burning plastic
which might or might not have come
all the way from East Palestine
a propeller plane circles
no clouds to hide in
i sit surrounded by the uprooted
their dwindling bulks
like old axles each with just
one decaying wheel
misaligned a freight train
shrieks around the mountain
spine beginning to twinge
i walk on