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.