Trees get to dance, you know.
I’ve seen them with my own eyes
even though they instantly stop
and pretend they were rooted all along.
I caught this one today, decked out
in his viney autumn garb, chanting
the ancient songs of harvest,
of reaping and gathering in.
He was wonderful, and so still when
he spotted me that no part of him moved,
only the vine wound around him
fluttering in the dry breeze.
I walked on, pretending I believed
he was nothing more than the
broken trunk of a weathered tree.
But the song of his spirit followed me
across the whole, broad valley.