The obsidian eye turns,
a jay, black hood over stellar blue
creeps down the arc of a fragile branch
her weight sags closer
to reach a cluster of dead leaves
she tips and tumbles
dry fragments of leaves explodethe vacant branch nods in time
music of a tree, a bird, and a falling leaf.
Was this the irresistible urge
to pad posterity’s nest
or the ticking of a moth
born of a curled leaf?
There is no great drama here
no emperor crowned
no bloody battle lost or won
nothing worth noting
But this tree will never be the same again
this paper with its marks of black
no longer a blank screen, the residue
of (soil, water, fierce sun) wood
the remains of a tree in which once sat
a blue creature who spied a person
sprawled on a rock
dreaming of important things.
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