between the tree limbs
shifts gently in the breeze,
drops like a small mossy twig
onto my hammock, its descent, no doubt,
in phases —having broken off
before the breeze occasioned
its silent fall
Insects that ride mostly on air currents
assert their will at chosen moments,
ravens converse in the distance
Time, when observed,
seems not to move,
but leaps in weeks and years
when I’m not looking,
a cloud begins its journey
across the blue between the trees
as if it’s a long haul,
but disappears almost at once
behind a branch
The wind comes up
and all the trees have thoughts about it,
rush hush whispers passed
from crown to crown,
unseen insects click among the leaves
and there’s really no direction that’s essential
except the rising, falling breath,
the gift of life.
©Wendy Mulhern
May 1, 2016
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