we went to wooded island. a lot of dead wood. decaying green plastic fencing rimming the eroded banks, dead wood following dead wood. now it's a death island, that metal death lotus, sculpture of the death cult, and the decaying trees becoming humus that erodes and kills the fish.  i feel the birds seeking shelter in dead trees, i see them too clear, stark, their songs sound harried, desperate for nests in destroyed canopy. i walk and feel exposed with them, i feel the eviction happening, the no-place that was home, the flitting of wings, thoughts only, unhomed. mister tries on the skin of a dead tree. nothing fits here anymore.