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.