In the oak tree’s shade
 
a homeless man and his dog
 
take a midday nap.

 

 
 
 

I quiet myself,
 
hoping the oak tree will share
 
its secrets with me.

 
 
 

Blackbird in the oak,
 
perhaps I’ll listen to you
 
on some other day.

 
 
 

November’s last rain—
 
the leaves that clung to the oak
 
now litter the ground.

 
 
 

Into a cold stream
 
one oak leaf drops at twilight—
 
autumn solitude.

 
 
 

barn owl’s hunting ground—
 
the vast expanse of shadows
 
between oak and pine

 
 
 

Crow in the oak tree,
 
I cannot help but notice
 
that you notice me.

 
 
 

As evening comes on,
 
the old oak in the meadow
 
hides a cunning crow.

 
 
 

Midwinter morning—
 
the last stubborn oak leaf drops
 
into the dog’s dish.

 
 
 

Three oaks will tell me
 
what even Stonehenge cannot:
 
which way, and how far.