A single streak of pale white cloud
Dances down to touch the tree.
Birches, farther off, near horizon,
Mimic the wannabe lightning cloud.
A wide swath of pasture land
Sprawls out between the trees and me.
It is green and grassy, splattered with tan
Where dead plants have resisted the grave.
And this tree touched by clouds
Stands alone, surrounded in a ghostly way
By those resolute plants, clutching
At the roots and trunks of lonely tree.
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