Barren branches scrape the startrek-backdrop sky,
scratching at mercury vapor colored clouds
as if the starry nighttime underneath
itches just to shine on through.
Sometimes trees are more zen to watch
than clouds. I watch them moving now,
above the fog this winter night --
barely New Year's past yet warm as witchcraft --
and not all dancing to one song at that.
The trees invented wind you know
just to move without suspicion ...
to talk across meadows;
bow gracefully to flowers.
And we hog it all now
flying our stupid metal machines
literally upon their air --
Dropping death from high above
on defenseless skeletons,
starving in the camps,
closed off until, for desperation of will itself,
send toy rockets over prison walls.
Will man stay and watch this murder blind,
while even trees are not standing still?