Fruit falls all over the forest, a bloody carpet
laid down when the earth shifted
Now the water has receded, and the tigers' saber teeth have rotted,
we gather around a clearing to discuss our future
The elderly crawl out of evolution, waving wrinkled fists
and the younger ones can't hold their tongues, eager
to feast on the Sika deer, splashing through the low water
with no desire to "move mountains." From North to South,
the whole field is a dining table
The "Republic" mutters, while the dictators
chase after mosquitoes and flies
Fortunately we all stand upright, able to see easily
what's coming, to break the shackles of the food chain
But our efforts in October tend to produce
surplus: we don't need face-painting, cooking or
to use flesh as lumber, only males overthrowing females
continuously while chanting their animal-beauty
But to speak the words I love you will take at least
another two million years
of spring cherries and autumn moons