the first time a car passes, a small girl in the back seat stares at him
standing on the sidewalk
staring at his feet
pine needles sticking
slick with rain
to his shoes;
he is neither beast nor man
he is of the future and unwavering hope.
he trails behind him a perforated bag of forest nymph corpses.
they are not gorgeous anymore,
simply blocks of firewood
solid as he is.
the second time a car passes, he closes his eyes--
he can feel the rumbling of the engine
or perhaps the rumbling in his stomach
either way he hasn’t eaten
in three days,
he knows how hungry the redwoods are
for a drop of rain
a change of pace.