The fires of the northern forests are a new phenomenon
not because we don’t know fire, but on account of what
these fires speak
They do not talk the talk of water, of our expected rains
snowpacks that persist well into May, hides of moose
the spatterdocks of spring.
These fires are not les coureurs des bois seeking the finest
timber with an eye for quality; they do not learn Michif
(which outsiders call pidgin)
Rather, they are armies of the official tongue.
I know the scent of pine, spruce, and fir
have felt the sap of Hemlock on my fingers
I do not think of the poison Socrates drank
But the great heights of trees who live lives
of length a Greenland Shark or Seychelles Tortoise
might envy, were vanity their problem.
Songbirds know the fires are a new phenomenon
for the heat on their feathers is different; do Ravens
bounce tar from their backs better than a siskin
or grosbeak?
The forest has never been composed of pacifists
a tree will fell another tree with its fall
and snow drifts break backs even as they protect
rodents, camouflage the hare
Let the lynx hunt in silence like a Trappist
or become wolf like Nanabozho (Nanabush)
grandmothers cook meat to nurture the spirit
They have fed multitudes and would still
if these fires had any manners.