Live Oak and Hickory

My yard is a forest
where Grand Dames older than this ancient house
hold court over more ephemeral beings,
from the loquat and myrtle to the
littlest volunteer seedling.

Industrious critters chase each other,
streaking across outstretched arms, unaware
of the hawk who cannot see through the canopy.
They are safe, for now,
in the center of their leafy world.

This is the Florida Panhandle,
where wizened bark blends seamlessly
with fresh, green palm and red-winged cardinal,
where one can lift a veil of Spanish moss
and glimpse an entire world in the space of half an acre.

It is a place where birdsong fills the day
and cicadas serenate the night,
where the ground bears prints
of the bare feet of centuries.
This forest was never just a yard.