The auger extracts
carbon from the shallowest end.
Nestled in the peat, just three feet down, several
hundred years old. Hunkering beneath the black spruce
that stretch upward this summer, their roots burrowing
for what the fibrous matter has less of.
The ground once was cushiony, soft the step.
Now dry, giving easily to flame or smolder.
Some for burning. The stacks found there.
But not here, not wanted. For the haze
hanging in the air and the horse’s stamp in the stall.
The hill and timber, that deep breath
we took from, as if we were breaking
the surface, is now charred.
Begging for rain that comes
in the night not as deluge, not with wind
and rattling of pane, but gently, as if
we had all the time in the world.