The hippie gods of tree and field
gave way to an elaborate telenovela
of scheming olympians
which gave way to The One
that nobody can agree on.

When the world ends, it will end in squirrels.
The sun will warm our bald spots, and the wind
will blow the stench of our failures into someone
else’s kitchen. No more being sad about the price
of acorns. No more hollow trees filled with someone
else’s nuts.

I remember
the hour we lost.
It was April,
and the hundred-year-old trees were being born for the first time again.
I felt,
so briefly,
like I had control over time,
although of course I was only doing what I was told, like everyone else.