i open a book in the woods
and two ravens take flight
wind shuffles the sunset leaves
the ravens gurgle in the distance
another day breaks down
into its elements
i am trying not to rejoice
at the deaths of my enemies
the spongy moth caterpillars
decorating oaks with their corpses
they too are strangers
and sojourners in the earth
unable to limit their appetites
and stay where they land
the way an old mountain laurel
sheds its spent blossoms
and stands in a patch of what looks
from a distance like snow
