Malled

The Disney dream is a lie. Bambi has been rewritten.

No longer is it the danger of flames and firearms. It's crossing

a four lane highway and being trapped against a median.

A warm blood Flower streaked by the wipers of a Humvee.

The roads are littered with animal parts

scattered like pummeled puzzle pieces.

Turkey vultures claim their day—an overkill of death—

their feathers defying the cars zipping by.

Displaced crows pepper the sky above Walmart

soaring around the naked tree branches or

feeding off discarded fast-food French fries.

Their guttural caws—thick with resignation—trumpet the air.

Woodland creatures claim a piece of their space
that has been replaced with snow-specked cement,
white-washed fences and air-pumped Christmas
decorations big as the SUV sentries standing guard.

We have raped the land. Stolen the forest
and rebuilt it with doors and bay windows.

We have given the mountains a mastectomy.

Condos and spoiled children sprout up like mushrooms.

Fungus much too wild, too rich, and much too toxic to the touch.

poem and photo copyright Robert P. Langdon