A woman borrows something heavy. A woman borrows a mode and drags it behind her. From this proceeds a group of poems consumed by desires for violent collision with nature—desires to smash a dandelion on skin, open up a bird, crash into the moon. Cecily Parks captures the tension between nature and the human as a kind of puberty. In these poems, nature poises on the edge of metamorphosis. A tree weeps; an owl pleads; grass and field are given/imagined to have agency. These developments seem the easiest way for the post-pastoral (or maybe anti-post-pastoral) speaker to collide with nature: make it human.