And Your Sparse, White Hair, Du Fu

In a half-cracked country, not all mountains
Remain intact, and as for these rivers—
Drained, dammed, rerouted—it’s a miracle

Of sorts any water gets to the sea—
And the coasts have other problems, of course,
And the seas, if anything, are rising.

Fires burn, here and there, but if they’re beacons,
They’re not intentionally signaling.
And yet. It’s truth, with modification—

Even in this broken country, mountains
And rivers remain. That’s the scene this spring,
Season of disease and conspiracies,

Season of riots and increasing heat.
A bird startled me, and my pulse quickened.
When it shrilled in my ear, I thought of you . . .