Crisp, cold winds dance up a creaking trunk
lingering on the neck before tracing their way up the branches.
Leaning into the cold bark
interlacing long fingered gusts between outstretched buds.
The last leaves still clinging
quiver and drift away in swirling arcs.
A new dew rests upon shaking skin
glassy, smooth and sharp.
Whorling zephyrs drifting further
finding new flirtations in the night.