Homecoming at evening for her and the birds.
They settle in, she watches them, white whorls
on green, wreathing tree tops, as is their wont, until
sentries spot storm clouds, sound an alarm, (word-
wings their e-for evolutionary mail,) telling wary
ones to take flight, find other asylum, though
where is that in open sky? Only the brave remain
to witness wind chimes gone ballistic on a piggy-
back ride without which they cannot reach their climax.
Only the courageous stay to mark wild thrashing
of leaves, needing a conductor for their language. Yes!
trees must have this choreography, this knowing baton
to tell their stories, and she who comes to translate
takes out her pen, calling for Eros, not Erato to arm-
wrestle words to paper. Would that Michelangelo's David
be prescient in all his sculptural splendor, rated A for
Anatomy, or Saint David, patron of poets, as pure as
a saint is obliged to be, converting revelation to writ.
As the recorder makes haste to capture syllables
in the wind, small turtles lift their black arrowheads
asking blessing from their bread-crumbs benefactor.
As to what the poet asks? Who is there? Who listens?
Hold close the moment. No one escapes their
darkness. Therein, a cautionary tale.