National Park

by Alex Greenberg

The prairie is here, waiting
for a city to be built on top of it.

Contained within a rough sketch
of mountain, its trees whistling out

a scratched tune like a child
with fingers too small

to cover the holes of her recorder.
All along the coyote’s breath

has been thickening to smog.
His snout points to a different moon

each night and the howl follows
with it like a shadow.

The branches let go of their leaves
in preparation for the worst.