Longer than we could safely
stand at the window,
rain and hail razed our lot

and midway through–
the willow’s limbs,
some the circumference
of telephone poles,
had jackknifed over the fence.
Half a tree–
one side wistful,
the other serrated stumps,
still had presence.

The side near the gate,
a resurgence of sinewy vines,
interlaced, dipping
their extended ends
over the rigor mortis.
A foil now for the scratching
feet of squirrels and birds,
their chittering and calling
unbound in a forum
without benefit
of shadow or
reflected light.