On late summer nights
clouds descend upon the mountains
while storms flashing with lighting
radiate like neon fountains.
Within the foggy forests
fireflies luminesce
forming constellations before us
while attempting to confess
that the forests can be heard talking
of a time that pre-dates man.
They were here before you were walking
and your empires turned to sand.
Their choruses are unheard by most,
but the fireflies understand
the cycle of birth, death and ghosts
that haunt our ancient land.
“All is not entropy.”, they implore.
“Count their rings if you dare!
Some have 300, and others more
where your forebears once walked there.”
The Creeks, DeSoto, the Cherokee,
and their predecessors before
have come and gone like the tides of the sea
to the world of nevermore.
On late summer nights
rain descends from the skies
giving nourishment to the trees
in the forest that never dies.
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