Sometimes when I am among the pines
I think to tilt my head all the way back
to look up at the tops of them, laughing
as they drink the sky. I don’t do this often.
The textures of their bark, the heaps
of fallen needles and cones, the baby trees
springing from the soil beneath them
so entrance me that it is all I can do
to take in the wonders immediately
before me. But sometimes, the shrill call
of a crow falls all the way down
to where I am standing and I trace
the sound to a branch high above me.
Instantly, I am in awe, as if I had discovered
a forgotten world where ancient ones dwell,
conversing with each other, swaying in joy
as as they pass their stories around.
What the wind told them. What the jays
had to say, and the squirrels. Who came
to the woods that day, who found the gifts,
who noticed the hidden treasures, who
left treasures and gifts of their own,
how glad the lake is now that the geese
have arrived to scout out nesting places.
And all of this goes on so easily, as if
the troubles of the world were of no concern
at all. But then they have been here
a very long time and seen much, and choosing
to sing with the wind has allowed them
to rise above us all and to drink the sky.