I get this funny feeling
In the pit of my stomach
And my heart sinks a little
When I see a group of finches
Fluttering above the tree line
Like leaves being whisked away by the wind,
Silhouetted against the blue-grey sky.
They come from East and they come from West,
They flock to one tree, closer to me.
It stands out, more in the foreground,
Leaves still orange
While the other trees have brown leaves,
Or no leaves at all.
Brown and dead and strewn on the cutting room floor;
Fodder for fiction and next year’s blooms.
I know why my heart sinks
And my stomach knots up.
I want to climb that tree,
Right up to the top,
And look beyond the lines of oaks
And pines and birches and beaches and all
And see what lies at the far side of that forest fortress
Which blocks my view from behind this pane of glass.
I want out.