The solitary birch in the center
of the greening field by the train tracks
stretches slender bare limbs skyward

as if it were a woman transformed
after forbidden union with a god—
rooted there forever.

Over time, she will forget having
been mortal, will forget her longing
for the family of tree, will learn to

expect nothing more than the budding
of new leaves, the heat of summer sun,
the autumn winds of quivering gold,

and winter’s letting go. On the horizon
ancient ones watch her—mountains purple
in the coming dusk. At field’s edge,

a stream disappears into the undergrowth,
carrying last light toward the darkening
center of an old growth woods.

Now the train we are on carries us into
the landscape of night, whistling past
flashing red lights at the crossings.

The birch is long gone, yet it lingers
glimmering white as bone, learning
to expect nothing, not even itself.