And now a certain kind of scientist says

the weather in various parts of the world

is growing exhausted and just wants to lie down

for a nap, or maybe for a longer dose

of oblivion, so its dreams can be

re-spawned, its creatures large and small

replenished to wildness, the air re-folded

into its invisible origami, even

human language shot-through again

with sap: In the clear-cut woods—

raw ground and stumps—invisible trees

are learning to move from one place to another,

blurring paths and meadows—the people

who live there call them fathers who turned

away without waving goodbye and learned

to dance slowly; they contrast them with the boulders

and rocks, who really know how to dance

in slow time, even as the humans and the creatures

in fur and the creatures in feathers leave

their bodies and all the bodies they passed through

to arrive at now through eternities, but still

we pretend they cast shadows across the ground

and still we pretend they bear fruit.