Morning window’s a silver screen of birches,
a dumb flickering epic.
You can make a tree-blur and call it Siberia,
or you can catch one tree hurtling at you and away
and snatch a lesson on standing still, knowing one’s place:
Black-and-white. Makes sense. Marked from the start
with the stain. Unmoving but moved through
by weasel and frog,
bears, train, raccoon dog,
This is our place. We live and die. Goodbye.