In daylight the upper limbs of an upright pine
uphold a flock of skylit pine cones that remind
me of juvenile mourning doves ready for flight.
At night Venus shines: too bright for me to pay
attention to such details as the smaller parts of
evergreens, only the pine’s halogen-soaked trunk.
Sleepless later I wander outside to see Jupiter
court Spica and watch white oaks, restless, writhe
in the wind around the gyrating trunks of tall pines.
Come morning, I find my head has cleared enough
to toss out the over-dry loaf of bread I had baked
for a neighbor, and the shadows seem to say thanks.