Mad

Wind’s not the only frenzy
That keeps tearing through the trees—
Not wind, not fire, not chainsaws—

Terrible but lesser things
Compared to their own madness,
Or there would be no more trees.

Two sets of teeth shred their sheets,
The ice, when it advances,
And the grasslands, burned by apes.

The woodlands have been distraught
And on the move, back and forth,
Up and down, millions of years.

To your jumpier, rootless
Species, they may seem stately,
But they ooze wounded fury.

They’re hungry as anything,
As living. They’re mad with it,
In their quiet, grasping way.

Observe how long they’ve held on.
Can you kill all of them? Not
Likely—more likely you’ll leave.