Cuckoo, by Jen Rae Vernon

Cuckoo

"Historic Fight" hike three men in forest fire

two with shovels, one short-handled, one with pick

all thin, long sleeves, suspenders

no masks or eye protectors

We keepers of forest and mother nature

elemental-destroyers and life-makers

scrim red alights on crumpled photo skin

these men are ours, CCC Camp kin,

a step up from timber? how much can you get

for one log of cedar?

and indigenous knowledge bearers, where

are those loggers? sons and daughters

slaughter slash burn Strawberry Hill

We call it Bald Hills where I'm from and Cuckoo

Hill, for the yellow beaks who used to nest

their families there, tar pavement under bmx

and stumps forever on horizon

like dry lake bed remains, the dark hidden things

when they cut the forests down

We cried, wind knocked out of us, shared spirit

in small girls and tall trees and all the riff raff

underneath, bracken of fiddle head

rust fuzz and lilies

huckleberries, tiny like

pinky tip, on my lips

tangy in oranges

Three men walk stomp single file, not looking up

all minds on the work,

all minds on making it home

Thick colossals, protectors of us, we cut low, we let die

we born again, but no Warehouser style,

listen to the workers between fire and land

even ranchers know to let it go, lightning blacks

then spring shoots green heads, make the earth good again

for cattle and wild horses, buffalo, Geronimo

Nisenan Maidu loggers of lexicons

tenders of tomorrows

-Jen Rae Vernon