Everyone wants the Spruce cut down
except us, the landscapers and arborists.
You see, it’s forty feet high and doesn’t afford
the neighbors an opportunity to peek.
Shade in summer, green in winter
harbor for birds, squirrels, an occasional
winter rabbit. Only the tree brings the wind
to life in the rattle of cones, shaking boughs
stretched to hold last night’s snow, or bending
to springs first rain. Every year a particular
bird arrives – her sweet song hidden in the depths
a mystery never revealed. And just before dusk
a slice of sun smiles the whole world orange.