Forty Finches in the Leaves
To see beneath the sea of leaves
you must look through the veins of green,
they’re telescoping to the shore.
The loons will call, if you’ll believe
in sirens of the loch, serene
in voicing murmurs, nothing more.
Finches fly as forty thieves,
beneath the sand, they flee the scene,
but lately, there were forty-four.
Cologne besets these fading sleeves
and shapes the wind in serpentine
touching the sun, just like before.
This overpass, just by the bay,
is full of life, with much to say.