there’s no mountain
to the cloud
its shadow wandering
lonely as a poet
who no longer believes
in the power of words
as another name escapes
the tip of my tongue
trees are applauding the wind
their life-long mentor
the black birches are yellow
and the black gums
a pale salmon
a hawk flies through the forest
carrying something small
and very dead
a white-tailed deer
raises and lowers
her eponymous flag
as her antlered companion
seems almost to dance
between the boulders
there’s so little soil
the big oaks get their roots out
before they enter the ground
i take my seat
against a chestnut oak
we rock together in the wind
occasionally it makes
a high inhuman sound
that vibrates in my bones
