How pleasant are the green
and brown tiles
of my neighbour's roof.
The branches of his elm tree
stretch across
and make a delightful
composition,
the angle
of the roof
the exact plane
which the branch needs
to be interesting.
Le mot juste? la branche juste!

And you, my dark spruce,
dominate the left side
of this composition
You are clannish but authentic
and stand, uncompromising,
for the family of trees.

And all at once the early birds
all break out chirping
as when the bidding opens
on the stock exchange
Then one,
the long sweet warble
of a finch.
Oh stay! . . .
And then a chant from down the street,
two boys triumphant,
very small in thick glasses:
“We got a bird nest! We got a bird nest!”
But a younger brother,
left behind and clobbered
when the mother was not looking
saw his chance to singsong back
(ah, sweet revenge):
“But
a woodpecker didn't make that nest!”

A contrary air
It is gone.
And the blue sky,
clear as in Genesis,
holds

What is there between us?
an abstract air . . .
a state sans question
or inquietude . . .
something light
as a country air
yet serious as gold
or man sui generis