[A thousand leaves]
The hissing trees enormous I see through the window at home, thin arms dancing leaves. I thought the wind followed the compass, pleased in its blown transparency, but the choreography I see variegates the bramble gestures. The same wind blows each branch for its own ballet, the soft melody of instrument leaves spin, trunk, spin swirl for the green liberty of entranced seeds, waiting for the right sod. The rumble in the air heads for new islands wanting rails. Through the window of this second floor at home I gaze; from the tall trunk I stretch steps in my flats like the singing trees in the yard. Roots pitch the wait, theirs and mine. Searching is serene when dancing with what wafts the soul.