I watch the oaks through sylvan grammar,
Their furrowed bark, their wreathes of lobe-leaved twigs,
Their scraggly, dangling catkins,
All details ripe enough for noticing.
If overlooked today, these stay
Tomorrow on through coming years –
These oaks will not be going anywhere.
Some days in May are different,
And beg to nominate contrasting grammar
(Migration’s own) for incarnated motion,
An advent flow of brightly colored stripes and streaks
That flit about and buzz and trill
Then fly away a-Northing.
This just might be our hallowed year,
To watch in May a dull green,
Furrowed, lobed and dangling tree
Transformed and parsed with bird lights
Like a Christmas morning.
