Eight Sister Willow Trees

Eight, willow sisters lean in grandness, wispy branches sweeping low
Backed by marsh and mirrors and geese, ducks quacking with content
I stand in awe, there is nothing like a new trail
One I have never been on before…and all the sights
Are fresh and filled with wonder, airy and full of the soft-falling
Night, …the day is darkening, barely perceptible, but evening
Comes softly in shadows and quiet and a calmness that is sweet.

The gravel trail has a loud crunch beneath my hiking boots
The sky is feathered in sprays of white against the soft, pale blue
I sit on the one wooden bench, perched high above the marsh
And watch the silver shooting star, the jet climbing straight up
Its double streak is white and etched with blank spots, tufts now
Below it, black birds glide against the backdrop of dewy night ness
I lean back and smell the cider fragrance of rotting apples fallen.

I trudge on, and watch the blond corn standing still, waiting, all done growing,
Knowing inside the dried-out cobs and the light-stained, yellow leaves
That harvest time will again change the landscape to barren and brown.
Sumacs sit empty of their crimson last stand, bare, furry branches stilled
The backdrop of soft, yielding, white pine trees offer an oasis of green
Verdant abundance amongst the grey and brown, bare, deciduous branches.
High above, the half-moon caps the tranquility with its own stillness.

I stop, staggered, when I spot the doe, she standing like a statue
Trying to outsmart the hunter in orange, hidden way back in the bush.
The contrast is harsh, and I call to her, warning her of her vivid enemy
I am bold, I yell at him loudly, “ I hope you don’t get her!” I scream
It fits the night air, like it knows my meaning, I am sticking up for
One of her own, and the doe runs then to the thicket, and soon I see
The bobcat crouched in the tall grass, she too avoids the strangeness…
Something invades the privacy of nature-filled creation, an oddity now
That lurks in the air, the suggestion of gunpowder, and the stark, orange glare.
Invaders intruding in this artistry softly framed by the graceful, bowing
Branches of the eight, willow, sister trees, trying vainly to stand guard.

Colleen Weber

Pen name ~ cailin raine