POETRY: Bacon in a Pan

Drop bacon in a pan that’s not yet hot,

There’s no hiss, no pop. You can tell right then

The bacon will be soft. Not quite how you like.

Pretty much anyone who was around

When a tree fell in the woods will tell you,

“It made a great crash. The animals jumped!”

Any fallen tree on human record

Is momentarily noted for its

Final symphony—splinters, trunk to shards.

A quick little epitaph: “What a crash!”

“Must’ve been a big tree somewhere that way.”

Basically every tree that ever fell

Fell when no one was around to hear it.

It’s a sad thought at first, but then again

I doubt trees hope for a hiker to pass

As they start to creak and groan, as their roots

Lose their grasp on drying ground.

I bet they learn to live with the idea

That the other trees will know how it goes.

A little breeze, a dodging squirrel.

And then here we are, down the road, hot breakfast,

Debating mechanics, neurology,

Over our chewy bacon.