He was raised on the river.
Knows every fish that breathes its waters.
His veins are salamander dancing.
The arms that stretch themselves from his
Trunk are black locust branches.
River mucked, never.
His nights sway in the wind
Catching the dust of the man-made
Machines that beat his soil skin into
A filthy state of existence.
The stars reach their lips down.
Each night they kiss him on the forehead.
One of these days,
He’ll mayfly into their arms.