branches
slap branches, flap
their
few leaves, make wild
commotion
and complaint: the air
is
raving and motes of birds,
snatched
in sky currents, fly
impossibly
backwards.
the
apple tree wags by the garden door,
smacks
down a yellowed fruit on the flags
like
a card player with a winning hand.
rooks,
rain-beaded in the creaking willows,
wrap
their hooks tight: jig to the beat of the storm.
