Westbound on Detroit Road,
Thursday afternoon—
the sun at last undoing
what the week of hard cold had locked,
wind finding purchase
in limbs long held numb.
At the light, I was made still
beneath the oaks that rise above the church,
their upper branches clearing the roofline,
where dozens—perhaps hundreds—
of narrow arms were lifted,
bending back, then forward again,
not in time,
not together,
yet not alone—
each answering the wind
along its own brief arc.
I searched for the word:
rhythmic—too orderly;
swaying—too mild;
dancing—too deliberate.
No.
This was something else.
An ecstatic murmuring—
as of congregants when a current passes through them,
not taught, not rehearsed,
each moved according to its measure,
yet taken up into one trembling praise
of what simply is.
The light changed.
The branches did not stop.
Northcoast Antiquarian 