The forest’s fingers are swollen with summer.
Leaves contemplate in whispers the wind

that will carry them down through thining air.
There, in the unfilled spaces, a song

swirls outside the rigid lines of its creation, revels 
in the packed earth where it echoes.  An owl is

watching, perched in the gentle notes and silences 
reflected off the moon. His glances grow heavy,

a chance at refuge for the rhythm in cloudy eyes.
The wind heaves its chest to ease the song 

as it slows, exhaling a coda for the one
the fading sun forgets: the owl

clears his throat and tries to hum the green
back into the leaves as it runs

through the stem, a dirge chanted down
the branches as they swell and release.


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