It’s a phenomenon how as
late as May the firs,
not yet blooming,
silhouette in a light and beige blend
against a whitish blue sky
filled with birds and insects,
living things of all kinds that
settle in to nourish from
the flesh of bark.
That music the firs make in the night
needs fine ears to hear the subdued
whooshing, creaking, and rustling
and the unexpected sigh when the wind
bends the twigs too roughly
yet they refuse to break.
Poetry by Serge Gurkski