On the Successive Deaths of David Bevington and Michael Murrin

There are some giants who remain in place

So long they are misregistered as mountains:

A cave reported where there is a face;

Their sleeping drool unrecognized makes fountains.

These massive beings cast their shadows deep;

So deep whole towns are built within their shade

Where people in the darkness softly creep

As if the sun itself would die and fade.

So great can be their impact on the land

That every map will note them and new roads

Skirt by their legs as if divine command

Instructed them to lessen their great loads.

And when they leave, the people who built there

Are left bereft, as lost as anywhere.