Conversations with my Tree
Today briefly I saw a red bird, its breast, the body feathers black.
Slender, a slender bird with a slender beak. Around the corner
two men with binoculars stared at a tree.
Not you, this was an ordinary tree on the side-walk.
Finally the men moved away. I saw the bird with my naked eye.
I didn’t tell them: wrong tree.
I wish birds, even one bird, lived in you, my tree.
No reply. Silence.
This tree doesn’t move a finger until she’s sure
which way the wind blows. She’s a political tree
her motives thus far unknown,
her assessments undisclosed.
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