Trees write their lives in the margins of the sky.
They write with fingers brittle-boned,
with scrawny knuckles and with brawny arms.
They write with feathers left behind by birds.
They write their names. They write their fames.
They write the circles of their years and secrets
of the night, soft scent of coyote young, of fawn
and vole, cicada songs and cricket chants. They write
of ripples on the lake and sounds of splashing fish,
bullfrog below, and the sounds of sleeping birds.
They write on blue sky, black and gray. They write
on sunset colors, and they scribble on the moon.