Matter of Fact Disaster

Overnight, half a large pine tree
Snaps off abruptly in a gust.

In the morning, three white-haired men
In ball caps, arms crossed on their chests,

Stand around the neighbor’s front yard
And discuss. One calls an arborist.

This is human problem solving—
Gather, parley, recruit experts,

And then, if it’s only the world,
Coordinate and get it done.

The tree, which was the block’s largest,
Is now nothing but a ruin,

But the dangerous, hanging limbs
Have been sawed away, the refuse

Hauled off to be mulched or dumped,
The contractor already paid.

It’s a beautiful interface
Where our species machines physics.

If it were nothing but the world
We needed to fix, we’d fix it,

At least enough to get through it,
But where’s this world when we need it,

When it’s just us falling on us,
When we’re both the wind and the dust?