Walking from front door
I go out to visit
The maple
touch her braille skin
comb her abundant foliage
expecting my reach
and her roots
with their clenched knuckles
and the soft grass
like a slippery carpet
and the breezeless afternoon
and a dove-couple
like stone carved gargoyle
slightly hidden on tallest branch
not a fidget or soft coo at first
then one makes a feather ruffle
the other answers with soft vocalese
and their duet-improvisation
holds my ears then closes my eyes
I dissolve inside sonic composition
that lingers on maple bough
long after they wing away.
