Trees in stained glass
How we imagine glory
Reaching upwards
But rooted in brown earth.
//
Squirrel song
At dawn, she was busy and frisky.
Then by afternoon, busy again (but more languidly), this time tight rope walking
Across our human telephone wires. Then by evening, burying nuts
From God’s trees. And there is no retirement for her. She leaps freely,
Across our days. Like a quick poem.
//
Cardinals, when young, try to grow Mohawks
But do so slowly, so at first
It is just a tuff- side-tucked;
Trying to be cool
Enough to join the crew
And turn pure red.
Like their parents.