Written by: Nola Perez

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.