There Are Always Consequences

There Are Always Consequences

A peaceful stroll through this woodland
kills three insects, flattens ferns,
drives a bird into a farther-away tree
that she has not stepped on yet,
a nest would look good here, maybe,
she thinks, though the branch will
snap in a month. At a Matt & Kim concert,
I saw Kim walk toward the edge
of the stage and keep walking,
flinchless, across the hands of the crowd,
palms upturned like lily pads to hold
her as she danced. The ground does this,
too, grass giving us its back, a twig
becoming two twigs because we thought
of a person’s voice, looked up and just
then loved the light through the pine needles’
interlaced fingers.