. . . go out in joy . . .
More alive than your average giant,
the backyard pine rocks with song.
Blackbirds, four-and-twenty? Yes,
and more: we’re talking hundreds.
Bronze needles whirly-gig down,
cabled roots creak like halyards
beneath twenty leagues of sky, the day
trilled so raptly by gleaming beaks
that one expects hymns, fanfares—
not this racket.
Curiosity reels you in: Imagine
this black-robed choir launches, as one,
and the tree weighs anchor, dragging
its mile of taproot and ivory mesh,
ground roots afloat like rigging . . .
A passing semi spits gravel,
the birds jump ship with no teamwork
or plan, just those reckless
arpeggios, iridescing across the dawn.
Pocket a feather, stride home.