Little bird tapping on my shoulder, give me a clue. Where does the tree meet the sky?
The very top, the highest branch, the conicle essence of majesty in the realm of fortune?
The sky huggers sway, the light and air is pure treasure,
and free to the kingdom of solemn oak, birch, redwood, or the like.
The passing of time has abundance in nature, and really, no conjecture. For conversation is moot.
Little bird can hop the low branch to the forest floor, and in an instant visit the pinnacle.
I see none but the making of my destination. The trappings of youth,
the reeling of age-old prophesies into context vertigo is my breath in intangible partitions of insight.
I need nothing of the earth, the earth needs much of me though. I transgress the obvious,
dream the highest branch, yet it’s not my hierarchy to flit about chirping.
I am to listen and be told in seasons and whispers,
and remedy the broken branches for the little bird. – Sinz