Silence
leaves
years
layered
seasons
woods

take little
notice
of such trespassing

as
two
feet
away
from mine
an ancient

tin
black on rust
boasts HAND SOAP

packed
full of
leaf mold
beneath
white skull
catfish hung

to bleach
in skin
-ing tree.

Sounds
of sycamore ease
into maple
Susurration
of cottonwood
carries

beyond
summer
rustling

living
in these
dead
leaves’
veined parchment
water-marked

messages
reams bound
                 for later reading

when someone will
have an ear
to the ground.