by Karina Borowicz

In a clearing at the edge
of the forested hillside a boulder
is crouched. A mother elephant
and we her children. We find her
even in hip deep snow, even
in the muck of spring. When the fires
of autumn light the trees, hunters’
gunshots tear through the same distance
as the war. Where I place my hand
her shale skin stays warm.
They aren’t coming for us, I keep repeating,
but there are tremors in these woods.
Hidden lives beating against plain sight.