Winter-thin trees
disclose what summer's canopy obscures:
what lives at the root.
Deep in leafless steep thicket,
in the rain in the ravine
below my window,
a bare human nest clings
in the base of branches,
the dwelling of some unseen being.
In muddy camp a tent door flaps in the wind,
empty sleeves hang wet 3 days over a limb.
A found lounge chair invites leisure,
a sprawl in the fog --
ghostly, vacant hospitalities.
Week by week, sometimes day by day,
the implements and fragments shift,
rearranged as if by some upright beast,
evidencing but unrevealing the presence of an other.
I wake early, often,
hopeful as an ornithologist with binoculars
in the weak light of winter dawn
to observe in habitat, as that too wakes,
one obviously of my species.
Watching the naked stage,
I hunger for episodes,
my breath caught in thrill
to sight my own nomadic people,
their lanterns burning the night's chill hillside:
breaking the law, straining my senses,
having whatever I have of home.