The winds storm
the high crowns of oak and elm,
rile my pair of squat dogwood
until they are three-quarters bare,
and fan the flaring bird song
whose source remains miraculously hidden
even in this fall-frayed garden.
All afternoon, I camp here
in this little light room,
windows wide open at either end.
I watch the steady migration, west to east
along the polished floor:
dust, tumbleweeds of dog fur,
contorted shadows and
the diaspora of words
pursuing the shelter of a poem.