My uncle swears you can tell what kind of man someone is
by how he stacks wood in a burn barrel.
We don’t use those anymore but he still talks like they matter.
Still keeps one in the back, rusted and dented, filled with junk mail and busted dreams.
The landfill’s too far now,
gas is too high,
and they shut down bus service out here.
So we’ve been stuffing old campaign signs into our fireplace.
Most of them say something about “freedom.”
I can’t help laughing when the letters curl.
He said the stars used to line up different
back before the big box stores came.
Back before they paved over the wetland.
Now nothing aligns right.
Even the deer are confused.
They built condos where the beavers lived.
Then named them “Beaver Creek Estates.”
My cousin spit on the sign when he drove by.
Said he saw one of the beavers limping down the shoulder,
dragging a piece of its home in its mouth.
Uncle says: next time,
we burn the maps.
We stop pretending this was ever about directions.
We follow the birds instead.
If they leave, we leave.
But I don’t think they’re leaving.
I saw two finches building a nest
in the side mirror of my neighbor’s busted car.
That’s got to mean something.
Right?
