Egg’s Grave Grove

Bright and dim. Spots of light fly
As if they had wings. They don’t.

The wings have them, kinds of waves,
Soot in the air, a pale dust

The woods can’t shake from their twigs.
You know how well dry grass burns.

Now we must sink. The winged snake
That coils in coins of light comes

Down in a cloud, smoke and fire.
Now it sinks in. Such small teeth

For such a great beast in heat.
This snake needs warmth for its eggs

To hatch. It’s too cool in here,
In the grove that will not burn

And has been known to freeze still.
Here is an egg. It won’t hatch,

Not for more years than you’ll live.
But it will last. If not crushed,

Smashed, or cut to bits it will
Wait in the shade of this gap,

Calm, cool, and still. When all else
Has burned, and the grove has died,

And no one cares for old names,
This green, gold snake’s egg will hatch.