Goodbye, Salmon Paper

I have given up
the Financial Times.
I have shaken off
my corporate spine.

The woods and their chipmunks
where my monks and my nuns
listen for coyotes and hawks,
this is the place to scream now

where the trees can watch you fall
and record the reality of all
that minds can bend toward.
Mine. This is anachronism

writ small. My grits have become
grains in the sandy sprouts
these new figments 

that can now love
to shout.