The Tops Of Trees

Shaun Gladman, 2003

A face that's foreign to the Sun
And spurns the stars' arced nightly run;
As always, cast upon the ground,
While noisy birds above abound.

Despite the din, his gaze stays firm:
The shifting soil betrays a worm,
Sliding clear from an earthly den—
Oblivious to a waiting wren.

The hunter steals its hapless prey,
Then ascends, to the boy's dismay.
Yet captured by that sweeping flight
His eyes are met with brilliant light.

The scene takes shape; he finds a world—
Blues and whites entwined and curled.
And as the wren recedes, he sees
For the first, the majestic tops of trees.

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