from under the squawking tree
not feathers but leaves ink the sky
the flutter of wind flicks fig leaf gloss
over the names of things in the dark
their weak sheen unbroken
by the shadow of arcs preening
creaks and screeches storming
the smell of clouds about to break
and swallow every word left behind
outside scratching like ice against glass
the sounds of syllables left to fall
from the tree full of rainbows
black against the almost black sky