the enso

"In Valles Caldera" by marlowe

the poem

The soft rise
on the NW side
of the gravel
road is pitted
with your dens. You
pop in and out
as we slowly rumble
by our reverberations
setting the tone. Are you
scared of the Jeep
or dismayed
by its anti-climatic
arrival — oh humans
again when will
the elk return?
You escaped
the fire nestled
in the Caldera the irony
escaping everyone
including the park
rangers who sold us
cokes and gourmet candy.
It is surreal to sit
on iron patio chairs
in the middle of a dimple
formed by fire
and force and feel
the peace left behind
the golden meadows
you roamed while
the rim was scarred
by a new fire
a force entirely
man-made its impact
unknown. Perhaps the wind
spoke in your alert ear
one sunny afternoon
as you emerged?
Did the eagle’s
squawk give away
the ending? Or did you
not know at all mistaking
us for elk mistaking
the risk as you scuttled
away from our exhaust?