Streaming at all hours,
the same fierce
attention, the wind’s
bright task, the leaves’

riotous leaps and leaps
soldiering on.
Not the flotsam
of parting,

but a roiling
steeped in desire,
the common sense
that binds starling to crow.

So many ways to nestle
into the surface,
to surrender to the season,
to be unbroken.

And things unhuman
that could become
second nature.
Second nature.