The way light filters through trees
the way small yellow-star-flower 
 
reaches out to say hello. Grabs you 
by the corner of your eye –snaps–
 
your head around like it’s a wrestler
trying out a move from top rope. But
    
    it’s just a flower.
 
The way a shadow slithers along 
the exposed trunk of an uprooted 
 
dead cedar like a copperhead 
hunting a vole when it hasn’t eaten 
 
since the dusted Virginia Pines gave
up their old man-walking-in-park 
 
disguise and shook off snow 
in wind to explode into spring. And
 
        it’s only shifting shadow.
 
The way the sky spins a whistle
right above the canopy treetops 
 
from between the feathers of a bird
the size of a small hog that has been 
 
watching you from it’s nest of limbs,
and bleached rabbit bones halfway up 
 
the lichen covered vertical rockface
when the sky is breathing.