the forest turns & the line of mercury
moves further to one end. a roosting box
sways in the red wind. leaves brittle trellis.
tree-struck. cedar waxwings--
wingtips red like the malus apple
they call from. sometimes, all we have
is what we cannot place
inside ourselves. but then, whose hands
have built the bird house? whose father
planted the crabapples? whose word for son
is a pasture webbed open in want of rain?