Storm Story

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.