Could This Be It?

Transfiguration. Consider it from where you stand.

Overnight the cold cloudy wet spell was lifted and

you wake beneath a Byzantine blue dome of glass:

golden birds-red hearts in their musical breasts -

overflow the oak leaves with echoes, a frenzy

of possession that fractures into small squabbles as

two redbreasted nuthatches struggle for dominion

in a sapling oak-its leaves emerald tesserae in which

sunlight glows. Suddenly, the leaves look back at you

looking up at their broad, light-lapping faces, morning

riding your shoulders like a pet monkey, and all is pause

for a cracked moment of amazement, mutuality, until

you walk on into woodshade, flapping mosquitoes away.