Between the thunderclaps,
the boy looks up and thinks,
‘this sound will inform the rest.’
He is riding now, pedaling faster than necessary,
down a lost path, towards a fallen tree.
Knuckles grip the bars white,
rain-soaked, catching cold,
listening for the things that follow,
watching if they’re also ahead.
He approaches the clearing,
but reconsiders –
‘The sycamore have been like safety’,
and realizes he’s been pushed to this place,
to this burnt space between the woods,
cleared by Cherokee fire.
Like a cage,
made of his ghost trees.