Infestation Poem by Robert Ronnow

Two years peeing in the same spot and still no clue
about the small tree with thorns in the bole
and opposite, entire leaves. Not Gleditsia. One thorn,
not three. Could it be privet?

Full of doubt. About survival of the species and my own.
A plague of tent caterpillars, more than an infestation,
an insurgency that has left the sky naked, bones revealed
trees knee deep in webbing.

Another way to look at it: The caterpillars have opened
      up
the understory. It's not a form of terrorism,
it's an opportunity for otherwise repressed species
to assert genetic relevance.

A scientist gets out among the ticks and webs, observes
the march of barberries up the watershed, mustards
      spread
in tire treads, and hidden among this mess of invasives,
a jalopy of a hunter's roost.

Beer cans are also diagnostic. Inwood Park,
dog poop and abandoned cars, yet a copper beech
      around which
Indians camped. The broken asphalt and Spanish
      language.
Humanity followed time there.

When I see a fox, a coyote or a bear, I think What
      Good Luck
to be made of clay and alive this year. If I saw a cougar
I would not know what to do. It would change my life,
like an archaic torso of Apollo.

Look for the silver lining. Walk on the sunny side of the
      street.
Count your blessings. Life goes on. A little better every
      day in every way.
You can't take it with you. It's only money. People who
      need people are
the luckiest beetles in the world.