We have tall trees. The sort

that seems to have raised themselves

From a story,  rather than a seed.

From the north they look

Like spindly teeth ready to eat

The sky. Along their roots,

We mapped the spine of our land,

Coming to conclude that

Moss is a language rather than

A cartographer’s mark.

From below, an organic Lucerne,

Spires crafted from wind, water,

And sun erased the monster’s

Bite from our minds.

We made our way

To the opposite ridge

And waited until our trees

Became beacons.