Here are the trees,
all beset in lovelight.

The leaves, grown dark,
are quieting –

their pitch of activity now
a low hum, soon to be silent.

And I, a mammal,
who has been given

feet instead of roots
am playful and rising

in the cool evening air,
running, spinning

wheeling on this hilltop,
body singing –

for how could I not play
and laugh with this world,

so wholly given in mystery.