The 45-degree slope of redwood branches
slung from the tallest tree is gravity’s equation.
Branches of younger trees bend to the moon,
show sky between them. No gaps in the tallest
tree — no, not gaps but small feathered zones
filled with gray fog & car noise. Staying here
among sounds of affluence, traffic, drought, fire
I remember why at home I foster silence.
Leaf fallen from the tree, tree an imaginary
construct formed entirely of leaves — space
where the tree stood, leaf on the bare earth
dry dark shriveled — wet black dissolving.
What constitutes ethereal landscape?
From scarce remains a backbone springs.
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