The domes that are the scrubs are surged with green
and fleck the margins of expansive fields.
Because the green sea’s vestured weaving
we do not see the windows and the doors,
the countless circulating corridors
in the singing scrubs’ interiors.
But see the birds, slashing airborne crescents
over the field’s green sea’s fire?
They know of every opening one of them.
The woods that are about to lose their leaves
pivot them sadly back and forth like the queen
waves her hand; or tremble further faster
to hiss and seethe like fire, that hottest
at its peak will even roar in wet wind.
The birds who weave about the ruin of the woods
forget about every opening, the green secret halls,
the full-bursting out into widely smiling fields,
but in the woods' widening, leaf-loss, seize on still berries.