Leafless now, they arc and curve,
swoop like stilled birds in midflight,
statues of gnarly grace that

have stood on this rise for generations
of men, cattle, birds, deer, creatures
of the earth.

I come to walk hills freshly greening
after the dry months, new grass
dampening my shoes

as I walk uphill to meet these
old-new friends, to linger and look
from their vantage

across acreage now reserved for those
no longer in life, but where the living
can come walk

and remember, as I do on the last day
of the year, under puffed-up clouds
barely moving.

I am rarely happier this late in life
than when I am outdoors keeping
company with the greatness

of trees far older than I, or ankle deep
in timeless seas, or looking up
at stars—odd for one

who has spent so much time indoors.
I am pulled by the gravity of increasingly
less time on the planet, as if,

every year, the whispers of waves
and leaves and sky, of sand and hills
and deep vertical fissures

of rugged bark grow louder—
we, deeply rooted here,
you, flitting by for brief visits,

retrieving a few fallen acorns,
tucking them into a pocket to remember
what needs remembering

before you head back downhill into time,
into a new year that, like us,
waits to receive you.