182

Black silhouettes of humble trees lay flat
against the hazy sky.
Leaves in place,
moist summer air sticks to roofs of sleeping houses.
A newspaper page like a rock in the street.

It’s a stadium for the crickets
It’s a concert arena
They play a symphony for the trees

Marble clouds like fish
frozen in water hear

their crescendos and wave of tings
They’re dancing in their streets
They call to children in their crowds
They’re in mobs looting apartments
They’re throwing streamers making love

in leaves of steel.
And the street lights dim but never flicker
as the only car all night goes by
with its windows up.