I circle until you appear
knocking at a big twist of silver maple.
a trail upwards, cold sky
dizzy with cloud.
from wind forests
where distance and branches bend
beneath claps of uncradled space.
the blood’s applause with each note
of your performance.
Tiny player of heights.
If I could I’d follow Woodpecker up
to the deep face
that opens on everything,
where the universe began with a nod.
Up he went
luring out the yellow drum of sun
while the sky came together,
turned and sliced like a vast colour
I could almost touch.
When he climbed from sight
I fell back into the afternoon
surrounded by September
the top of the world.