Young trees bow like dancers

things I noticed

Cold that bit my lips and made me dumb.

A woodpecker no larger than my hand, peering at me from the far side of an elm trunk. His beak a needle.

The sun’s reflection caught in the overturned cup of a bridge’s arch. Reflection larger, more brilliant than its parent. Lamp post centered before all.
Lantern, you are not the light.

Two rising whistles of bird song.

Trees embracing: two slender trunks in the arms of a coal black crone. Who is the support, whom supported? I thought I knew, once. The elder tree’s limbs splay madly off from shared roots, centered in their chaos. The young trees bow like dancers away from their crowding neighbour and toward, tenderly.

Cold teeth on the windward side of my face, warm teeth on the lee. My mouth is closed.

It’s difficult to notice while remembering, and even harder while reminding.

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