If I climb this birch and hide myself

behind still branches, like a painting,

mix myself amongst brush stroked leaves,
in late-spring colors, Phthalo Yellow-Green,

could I blend in behind the noise of the street below?

Could I camouflage from storms that flood

my time and saturate my peace?

Even Robin bends watchfully, always aware,
fit for survival in delicate down and hollow bones.
 

She hunts for her young, frail and hungry.

Do these young know their destiny? No moment of rest,

no freedom from preparation.

I dread my return; busyness scrapes the pallet of hues.
My gaze rides the wind, finds another,

the work of Caterpillar across the way.

...

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