It was hardly bigger than my hand,
a piece of sycamore bark on the bed
of fallen pine needles, just a bit of litter
strewn on the path. But it drew me
to look closer and I bent down to hear
its story, and there were many of them,
about unexpected animals and birds
the tree whose bark this was had known.
All this, on a mere scrap of pastel bark
waiting to be noticed, on this path
in the woods.