From space the world can see
The skin of Athabasca torn, spruce trees
Nests of blackburnian and jay
The intricate ground, the tea-shaded pools
All overburden stripped and tossed aside
Long-jawed machines at their sulfurous work
So we may reach the sticky depths
For which we root and tremble
In the mirror looking back at me
A vision, my sternum split
Ribs cracked, dead leaves, dry twigs
Reaching brittle fingers toward the light
My heart inside, cooked and cured
Flammable, never more desired
Than a million years from now
Distilled, a single drop of crude
This poem first appeared in Cascadia Review (2013).
—
Pepper Trail retired following a long career with the US Fish and Wildlife Service, and is a Fellow of the American Ornithological Society. His poetry has appeared in Atlanta Review, Catamaran, Rattle and other publications, and has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net Awards. His collection, Cascade-Siskiyou: Poems, was a finalist for the Oregon Book Award in Poetry. He lives in Ashland, Oregon.
