There was a running track inside
a guitar riff. It felt almost warm
too warm, flowing through
strained synapsis
forcing me out of my room.
I couldn’t become what I wanted
my body plump with humanity
not in a good way.
I was trying to listen
these big stupid ears
trained on the Kikuyu, the Ghost Gums
creaking, cracking ominously
a sound they never wanted to hear.
It wasn’t just the trees
speaking non words
showing off thorns, vibrating
waiting for the roar of fire
a wall of it, moving closer
the air was smoky.
Back when we kept bees
it was way of talking
not just the buzz
the way they inhabited one tree
sending out the alarm, a sudden increase
of sound, a warning scent
acetate, pheromones, the sharp sweet
sting of it, saying stop
back away now.
They were trying to communicate
in ultrasonic, long range frequencies
the danger coming
a drought alarm.
When it came, too late
we were not just blind
but also lacking
electrical signals
temperature sensors, the ability to detect
volatile compounds in the air
heavy metals
pathogens, gravity, heat.