The woods were still dark, the morning sun
only now rising on the sleeping scene,
the branches bare, the revelry over,
the previous night’s rain having washed
to the ground the bits of what remained.
Except for the flaming scarlet song floating
down the hillside through the night’s debris,
I might have missed her altogether,
there, at the crest of the hill, her leaves alone
remaining. She sang as one deep in reverie,
uttering a last, personal blessing over all
that she had witnessed here since spring,
humbled perhaps at the realization
that she got to be the final witness of it all.
Imagine that. The last one.