A tall white Birch reared its stately form,
High in the path of the oncoming storm.
Its long, lacy leaves, in sad disarray,
Tangled and knotted with each swing and sway.
Cavorting like mad, or waltzing with ease,
A raging tornado, then gentle sea breeze.
A lone bird took refuge, a port in a storm,
A place to be safe, a place to be warm.
But the restless insistence and fast-moving pace,
Soon made it take wing, to a much quieter place.
And the wild waving continued like a maestro's baton,
As though unrestrained, now the lone bird had gone.
Its silhouette stood against the smooth sky,
Like an artist's achievement, the paint barely dry.
The white sturdy trunk, the leaves a bright green,
The clouds in the blue sky, could hardly be seen.
The blue disappeared, deep grey took its place,
And night dropped its mantle, the scene to erase.
