Because birds do not wait for insurance agents,
the mother as she settles on the Elm
eyes over broken limbs
drops and bombs, sizing twigs by beak.
Dwelling under fallen trees
keeps things simple. The adjuster whys over
every brick, measures life
in shingles, chimney, sheetrock, boards and nails.
I review my coverage.
Overhead, the harbingers drift.
Beneath, the street life lies: eyes negotiate
lines down, sidewalks strewn in reconstruction flyers
remains are not to be removed
by firemen, lawyers, photographers, anyman
with a chainsaw.
I count torn gutters to resettle.
Where trees once lined the street – a sky
beneath, a row of brittle homes
strip-searched by the storm.
Amid the rubble, nests are born
of insulation, splintered beams.
Caroline Young has grown increasingly tired of our culture’s persistent cat/dog debate. Both animals are masters of the kill shake, so what is there to discuss? If someone wants to write a poem about this, she will read it. Otherwise, she’ll just keep putting her faith in trees. Thanks for reading the work.