this morning’s sun, still pentecostal

waters new leaves in broad crowned elms

adorned, crowns within crowns

with magpie nests, wind-riding

as my spring-daft hounds cavort

i see again the crowd that day

our city, post-millennial, had

hired an american urban expert

to tell us what to need, now

that we’d turned that corner into

accepting, this is our way, the city.

i watched from behind

as the crowd, enchanted, drew near

to his talk of garden and path

and the rebirth of the walkable streetscape

there was a mutter of hallelujah rising

under the rustling papers, and then

he looked around, declaring:

there are too many trees here.

swifter than peter, the crowd drew back

on a breath; as if they believed those elms

might rear their mighty heads, up arms

sweep him away. as if they wished it.

this morning’s sun grows softer

by the moment, as new leaves

open laudatory throats; gloria.