I never really took note,
of how the trees reach their fingers into the clouds and fondle them.
Clawing and ripping,
causing the clouds to smear like clay across the sky,
held fast by little threads of fluff.
The trees point their fingers into holes,
and places without holes,
turning the clouds inside out;
and leaving them to bruise with the night.
The moss turns a blind eye,
and the birds weigh down the branches.
When morning yawns,
with its dewy mouth;
all the clouds have to cling to are the trees