clacka tacka tacka
              wha ha ha ha ha . . .”
                                         — William Carlos Williams, Trees

Whatever they are saying,
it’s not funny today:
this willow swings its hair
like a woman who has lost her child
and cares for nothing, least of all herself.

They cover the earth, these trees,
and code the winds and speak
across abysses to each other. Their blind roots
touch beneath mountain ranges and under oceans
they sigh messages that mingle with whale’s songs,
wolf cries, and whispers of all the dying species.

Another poet asked: if the trees gushed blood
would we stop cutting them?
We wouldn’t, of course, and they know it.
That’s why whatever they are saying
                                                has nothing to do with us.