Wrapped in moss like a layer of new skin
over a third-degree burn, the hills invite us
for a picnic. Rain has washed out the stains
of fire; a cool sun scents the now-verdant soil
like fabric softener. We hike slowly, noting
the Spring buds straining skyward, the
Snowy Egrets pausing to preen before taking
flight for Canada. A coyote eating his fill
of rabbit, his muzzle a bloody flower,
makes note of us like an informant
playing it cool. What is there to be afraid of?
At the top, we spread out our blankets, make light
work of sourdough and mozzarella, wash it down
with apple cider, wipe our lips clean. Dangling
our feet over the rock-wall, we try not to think
of what lies in wait below—the sirens, the tires
screeching to a halt, the State’s baying dogs…
Picnic, America, 2025
