A voodoo mask
of stiff needles
screamed defiance
at a streetlight
on a Wednesday night.
And all nights,
since the city
isn’t likely to take
the plight of a tree
very seriously.
I noticed as I sat
in a patter of rain
that the tree,
Joshua by name,
was leaning
at an extreme angle
away from its
electrified companion
which also happened
to be due west
and away from
the sunrise.
Not so unlikely
since the sun
and the tree
would tend to be
best acquainted
from eleven
to sunset,
there standing
a mountain
fifty feet to the east
tall enough to
shade through
the morning hours.
Still,
I could see
there was an
enmity between
these two tall fellows,
though painfully
one-sided,
since light posts
can’t sense
the rage of others
nor feel smugness
for their obvious
upper hand
over lovers
of darkness.
Trees aren’t,
in my experience,
usually so foolish,
so I concluded
that some poor ghost,
hungry and lost,
had lodged itself here
on the approach
to Skyline Drive,
in the shaggy bark
carapace of a
normally calm
and silent
desert
dweller.
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