The buzz, the crash, the buzz: lop, lop, lop.
Then the trunk. But first, hours under wind,
and days of rain, and years when roots ran.
A wren, a cardinal, a passel of ivy
flickered up or kept the tree.

Limbs lost, yes, but leaves flagged down
the seasons, limbs aloft, now swept
against the window, the tree sideways
in the greeny geometries air makes
of its barked and burled body.

This poem appeared in the August 2, 2012, issue of the magazine.