When the weather changes with the wind,
the reluctant oaks release their acorns
on our tin roof, what more proof do we need
to know we are surrounded by trees?
Tall limber pines—long leaf, short leaf, lob-
lolly—with their needles brushing the sides
of our house, tapping the rain gutters,
scratching the window glass. In the utter
darkness, their cones crash down upon us
like hand grenades, create some kind
of cacophony to add urgency
to the sudden drop in degrees.
No need to see for ourselves how our
poplar in the corner of the yard
strains to stay perpendicular,
its leaves chattering as they scatter.
No need to see any of it in the
looming dark. No amount of blankets,
pillows can stifle, muffle, drown that sound
out, we simply listen spellbound.
Deborah H. Doolittle lives in North Carolina home. A Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of Floribunda (Main Street Rag) and three chapbooks, No Crazy Notions, That Echo, and Bogbound (forthcoming from Orchard Street Press). She shares a home with her husband, four housecats, and a backyard full of birds.
