birch trees
stand like white ghosts
their leaves sway
whispering secrets to the wind

&

A little brown bird swoops in, pecks daintily at the earth, scratching his feathers, not minding my presence one bit.

&

A crow off in the distance staring into the grass, looking for some treat.

The trees continue their conversation with the wind.

The crow swaggers along the path to a different patch of grass. His beautiful, black body holds my gaze, he shimmers in the sun’s light, as the image melds–the breeze, the grass, the little bird, the stranger who has joined me on this bench. We sit in silence.

the silence breaks by the caw-caw of the crow;
he flies to his tree,
sounds his siren again,
echoes ripple back;
the scent of dry earth and bark perfume the air–
caught by the breeze.

Advertisements