By Ian Randall Wilson

Of all the injustices done
by drought sun,
the death of trees
is worst.  No hinge rising,
no perch.  Home becomes
a cracked glare.
Of course we are shrieking.
There can be no quiet text,
no get along.
We will not be amiable.
If we can’t sleep
neither will you.
We are the harbingers,
the bell-ringers,
the buzz
that calls out the world
to save us
from ourselves.