In the arms of a spruce, a black-capped chickadee,
gray wings flat against its body.
Among twigs in the thin crown of the birch moving against
distant clouds like the fingers of the blind reading the coming storm,
through a white oak leaf flattened on the trailer’s top,
still and perfect. Under the overturned hull of the kayak
lying on leaf-littered ground, abandoned like the thick days
of summer. Tracing the dark brown
water of Wescott Stream, moving again after the dry spell.
In the turtle that crawls towards comfort
on its muddy bottom.