At Sunset, a Tree in Saint-Henri Extends Its Branches
A towering beacon signals another winter looms. Clouds
skulk on the horizon, shadow-bellied, sneaking closer.
Remnant behemoth maple, you cock-a-doodle-doo, roost, autumnal.
Elephantine, you’ve trumpeted raw, rooted, earthen music
since long before we moved in and hopefully will long after we’re gone.
A harlequin tom sits at your foot—at your service, venerable sap-bearer.
A pair of squirrels gathers golden leaves from your thin branches to pitch
a nest against the flourishing cold, to doze cozily in arboreal eardrums.
Chubby rodents sail from one high, thick, antique tusk to the next.
The housecat peers up, sniffing fur-shrouded meat on the wind.