I hike into the cool hues of summer—
the bondy blue of the pond in the midst
of yellowing cornstalks, under the dark
spring green umbrella of oak-hickory
and black walnuts, into a peace
that only exists here. There’s nothing
to be forgiven in the forest. Not even
the foxes for feeding their young
that brother turkey whose sister now
pecks at grandmother grasshopper.
But we humans who peck at one another,
we have all sorts of textures of the law
of our land. We, having moral agency.
Or do we?