Look at the light
The sunlight on the lush branches
They nod in the morning breeze
The finest stems of the old trees
That brush against the sky
Mark every passing zephyr
This is morning; this is autumn.
Remember the tall birches in Taos
Those that the rich man had brought from the east
And watered every day for a generation?
They stood higher than all else around
Their groomed trunks perfectly vertical
Their shade dappling the adobe houses and adobe walls.
They rustled in the breezes of summer mornings
As if disturbed or roused by some spirit
Tangled in their branches.
And the cool scent of the mountain pines
Was transporting. Was the promise of a renewed Earth.