Beneath the welcoming oak tree,
only a block from U Street,
we listen to cicada strings
as the ground pushes back
against our hip bones like suspicion.
Still Earth seems to forgive, her pulse fluttering.
She offers us water; instead, we drink
from tiny bottles we don’t recycle.
She will follow us home from the park;
we will be driving, listening to the old songs,
not thinking of her.