The eucalyptus outside the arm-wide
window where I sit days watching hills
of trees sway under fog's covering breath.
Where the blue jay perches each dawn staring
into me. The arthritic apple trees
bent with age a few graphed hybrids, author
unknown. And the press of woods from behind
where wind and footsteps untangle, startle.
The few redwoods jut up from the valley
as if startled to be the last left to
stand as hawks circle and scream into air.
Once, there was a tree made entirely
of birds. Small and large birds that nested so
long in its wooden eaves their white and black
wings became leaves their hollow bones echoed
with the sap of all the tree knows until
everything lifted: the tree, the bodies
of birds into the open arms of sky.
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