An owl found the window sill
And called;
I wait gazing beyond winter’s orchard.
Eyes follow the land’s brown rise and fall;
And whisper for one moment of sight,
One word,
One complete breath.
The owl’s head turns, his vast wings unfurl
A bridge crossing into flight.
The bare apple trees, an intentional vignette
Penned with ten thousand ink lines.
Each winter the trees accomplish this wonder.
(Each winter’s night they retreat deep into the ink well.)
 
White is spring,
The apple blossoms drift in warming air
Summer green the trees become
Autumn, red fruit and bees.