After so many miles of babbling green

Who could have guessed – firs, in near perfect rows,

Uneven enough for notice, and untouched!

It was decided: here I would stop

To watch them steer the hours. 

 

Perhaps light, or the impact of a jay – 

Something would spool the xylem that quick,

Before you knew what was being directed,

And then there’s only the splendor

Of gathering. Selecting a row,

You stick a hand in rootage or declare

Futility; you enter or observe

A shadow’s width on a whim,

The faint, lovely hum of a moment.