Some strings of light.
Mostly absence.
Out the window, trees,
the narrow margin. The edges
carved in new sun.

I sway,
stalled at the warm window.
Out there the sweep of wings.
Out there wind’s tangle.

I sway to the absence,
a disappearance like hushed flight.
Now the wind nods slack with sleep.

In the tree outside my window,
the scurry of wings
like a preface to arrows.

Latticed shadows of limbs
weave a net of the day.
The sway of the tree I depend on
to summon me.