The children stood watch by the crematorium
since early morning. From my schoolhouse window
I watched, drumming my fingertips, as they squinted
into the sun. A stone’s throw away,
a gingko tree would have offered plentiful shade.

The one with thick glasses stared off at the mountain
and a droplet of saliva hung from his chin
far into the afternoon. I hooted and distorted
the image several times, fondled my smock
and chain: It was my luck to hibernate

in a forrest fire, to suddenly tough it out.
When would we know? The baby chicks at the peephole
thought a legend was being burned,
and the ashes were the bottom of that fortune.
They were in the full bloom of their delivery

even as the sun hushed and the damp began its quiver.
They hugged one another, and the corpse yawned,
for a moment sat up. Then, plunging, it seethed
and disappointed, finally cringed hugging itself
blood to ashes, and to a precise, metallic aroma.