one free wind day. It did not kill a family of rabbits sleeping snug in its roots. Nor savage a hornet’s nest snagged to a limb. It narrowly missed mashing the shadow of a man with an axe held tight in his hands. A man not implicated in the falling of a tree. It fell in a slow-motion heap, easing itself downward with much care and forethought. Even consideration. Not a flower was bruised. No bees were interrupted in their constant search and transport back to hive. Nary a bat was woke or suffered a transformative dream. Wise but wizened owl blinked not when a tree fell in a forest otherwise unaware of its presence, and now its absence.

in a soft gray cardboard carton of likewise brown eggs, has a chilling, singular thought in the middle of Mega-Mega Mart cooler: clearly we are beyond the nest. Its thoughts are of duality, not the collective. The We is unanimous. What is thought is presumed for poetic purposes as intended for a very selective audience, a market without immediate rewards. A future that is only a past. More likely a repast. Its ovoid universe exists on an irregularly shaped ellipsoid, offering no comfort to anyone except the ghost of Noah Webster. It’s existence, continued or otherwise flavored, depends less on serendipity than recipe. Fate Fast Fried frittata Forks Feast. The future has teeth and Carolina Reaper hot sauce. Freshly ground pepper is suggested. Smoked salts an option. Cilantro, but never parsley. A glass of Cava. Some Brazilian music. Maria Bethania and Milton Nascimento. Candles a melting must.