A whistler: one
and a thrummer: two

the latter like
someone’s dropped a cello in the woods
and a yellow bird plucks absently
at a string

Together they make quite a pair,
even as the morning sun
radiant on this thawing stream
seems to shimmer in rhythm with
their punctuated harmony

Even as fir tips sway
their version of
getting up and dancing

Even as a scoop of breeze
splashes light against the trees,
makes them luminescent.

Nothing’s ever seemed less urgent
than a schedule
in this morning pause

You lean against a fir tree,
commune with its gray bones,
feel your common origin

in how thin bark embraces,
in how your blood tingles.