Next to I-12 where trucks moan by, I peek at gabled trophy homes, willing the weak sunlight to come in and warm me. I can’t get warm, not even when I turn up the thermostat. Our handicapped suite, with kitchen, large bathroom, sitting area, and bedroom, needs only a deck from which I could fly away and find an ivory-billed woodpecker. Here I come, Pearl River Wildlife Management Area.

I spend all my days
working at home: why protest
this large hotel suite?

Across the highway, ungainly pines, half-needled, only at the top, march along, forever behind the cars and trucks. No pine beetle rust on them, unlike near Denver. There’s supposed to be a special ozone here, the rich air of Covington.

So close, unable
to see. Behind glass, mourning
the outside world.