We stood tall,
as always face to face.
Our branches,
welcoming faraway visitors,
bidding the neighbors farewell.

He was sitting on the deck,
accompanied by a glass of Syrah,
and the southern wind.
His notebook by his hand,
a gaze in the distant.

The child, his daughter, came running,
in between our ranks.
The rays of the setting sun caressed her silhouette.
A laughter of life,
A dress of indigo and bruised summer knees.

We let her pass,
Watching over her along with her father.
Staring at his child, he let go of the notebook.
Treasuring this drop of spacetime,
given to him,
Undeserving.

The loon watched from the lake,
thinking of singing across the hills,
but did not.

The girl turned up towards the house.
A cabin overlooking the orchard where the wind always blows.

The girl met her father’s eyes,
she smiled and cried of joy,
running to him, her father, her world,
in the last light of day.

We saw the spark in his eyes,
a light,
life.
This is why they are here.
The new world order.