Deep in a creek bottom,
verdant and green pines stand still,
a gurgle, more felt than heard,
emanates from the flowing water.

Occasionally a small crack of a twig,
a footfall rustle, always from behind,
an imagined noise of the leaf,
as it flutters down from on high.

As the breeze begins
a low roar in the distance,
the trees begin to dance and sway
as it slowly closes in.

Then the chimes start,
hung in the trees by my mother,
years ago, a memory ignites,
each time they are touched by the wind.

Silver tubes flash from behind green leaves,
sunlight glints off them as they ride branches
moved by air and provide a song
for the dance.