The trees outside my window
here in the south, though
half-turned from the season,
are still every shade of green.
Moss sways in the cool sun,
casting black and gray shadows
that move like snakes
on my neighbor’s white roof.
He is unaware of their charm.
They amuse me so.
I think about the seen and unseen.
My home is silent,
but every now and again, a sound
like hailstones startles me,
even though we are frostproof.
Hard, dead leaves fall on my roof.
But what my neighbor sees
is a soft, brown and orange show
flying past his window
in a sudden gust of winter wind,
silent and secret,
with somewhere wonderful to go,
a sight which I might imagine
through his eyes, but
could never quite know.

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