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from sap in an amputated sycamore

trunk, maimed a story high, secondary
branches make shade while palm sized

leaves stir orchard grass air. Titmouse
and chickadee take refuge there, within

a statuesque tree formed from a stump capped
with creeper like a chimney no longer in use.

Mottled bark wraps working limbs, sparse
on the east side to neighbor a dogwood.

Up the main west offshoot, one arm stretches,
elbow bends up, protruding, then tenders more

boughs to capture all possible light from the day,
as intended. Tonight fireflies will crack darkness,

like children with sparklers, bright and clear,
then linger in the sanctum of a sycamore stump.