NATURE Poem: The Leaves Don’t Turn Here, by Andrea Figueroa-Irizarry

except when big boots trample the earth
on pyre prescription from the burn boss.
I wait until tractors finish lining zones to

ignite the birds’ twig-built thrones, and
I watch underfoot for gray squirrel tails
puffing like porcupine quills as they scatter.

Insects dig into blackening soil and wonder––
do they wonder?––what hell their antennae god
thought they deserved. The leaves stay green here,

except when flames flick in woodpecker holes,
heat licking the sweat on my neck. Orange leaves
pile into the second-highest hill besides the landfill,

and I want to move north, beyond smoke leaves
and closer to the Smokies, to see the trees when nature
asks them to change, but I’m stuck with my nose

behind my gaiter, I can budget for that later after
mop-up when the ash flies from the trees to my door.
I’ll leave when the forest isn’t on fire anymore.