I raised a brow at the mountain
how it decided to subside
to a crater, and envelop some massive alien craft;
a forest carved into a god-bird

From my cot and window I
saw the aftermath of the crash
the quilted wings in wreckage of red
and green flipping in the wind
like the blankets of some great tribe

tangled in the mountainside
pinned with splintered rock and splintered pines
and flags of feathers surrendering
the woodworked flying machine
to the mountain
and to me.

I climbed to meet the behemoth
And felt that underneath
there was something to be grieved
there was something to be seen

but circles of the people,
who I call friends by obligation
came with quarrels as flat as spades
and were already building up molehills
on top the wooden bones

And soon then I was told
if it fell out of the sky
it was never meant to fly.

and soon the scraps were salvaged
and cut into furniture for the TV