Like animal-call songs of experimental strength,
a wild choir of trees are leaf-chanting in the wind
of the hardness of seasons, of centuries.
They’re throwing colour concerts just for fun.
Have your footsteps form a rhythm
backbeating the windbrushed basswood.
Breathe in, breathe in, draw in one great lungful
of life and scent and colour and sound
and be happy, here in the oldest woodstock,
in the wild forest that isn’t afraid
to laugh at itself in frivolous orange.