Fingerling creeks have webbed themselves
through the brush  no gossamer
threads these but furred legs from some
broken tarantula glazed with snail slime

coffee pods from the Kentucky bean trees
line a sinkhole moiled with acorn mast
buckeye, the occasional pawpaw seed

All around the massive boles begin
drying  Death already visited when wind
wrenched them from soaked soil
tossed them like jackstraws not to be

picked up  green ash, black walnut,
hickory and bladdernut splintering still
as heartwood gulps air in place of sap

The tree of a thousand woodpeckers has
toppled into two perfect canoes awaiting
portage Outer shells polished smooth
as songs to which I begin to hum the refrain

I’ve only to stop up these holes
to keep it all from escaping.