The trees are talking about us.

The earth knows exactly,

and the angels are conspiring.


Rolling waters of the lake through

naked branches, weave a blanket for

the diseased, the spry, the messengers, and the

hard of hearing.

Yesterday’s leaves shuffle

underfoot, married to the

soil.  And this bold song is cutting the air

like the call of April’s cardinal, arrhythmic,

and frantic

with life.