The wind
finds a tongue
in the hazel
below the
flaking air.

At seventeen
I was in
a Pontiac
at two in
the morning
& I saw it
moving
in a coat
of leaves,
awake
& sentinel.

It uses
elms
to sigh
east
& chimes
pinned to
the brick
by an old
plum nail
drip sprinkles
of its music
into the
amber eve.

With
mouthless
whisper,
it tells me
that spring
is here and
the long
acres
between us
are just
the wild
playing fields
of fireflies.