An hour of silhouettes:
leaves like sponged paint
pressed against clean linen—
branches brushed with ebony 
in a heavy hand,
and dusted with amber streetlight—
trunks like wet pastels swept sideways, 
soaking into sleeping sand. 

This hour is its own shadow, 
itself and its outline. 

A tree’s roots lengthen 
behind the drying oils
of these minutes.