I gaze out the door at the trees,
bare now, atop the southern hill.
I remember all over again
how much I love these winter trees,
how they never fail to speak
to something inside me that relates
to them somehow, at least as neighbor.
I listen to them this windless day
as they gather, it seems, in council,
perhaps to share their dreams.
I wonder if I am in their dreams
(that woman down there
who sings to the morning birds)
the way that they’re in mine.