For a week now, I have risen
as the sky begins to pinken,
to gently pull aside the windowshade
and see the collective of thirteen

soaring pines downslope
standing at attention over
the Hood Canal. I look at
the half-finished upper deck

that Al is building beneath
the Council of Trees, just above
his Sub Deck, where I love to sit
and look at the trees and water

and sky, along with the occasional
submarine silently subbing its way
up the canal—ocean-bound, tower
exposed, accompanied by smaller

boats wielding wicked firepower
for protection, if necessary. Later,
sitting on the Sub Deck, I look up
and count the council members—

yes, thirteen, an excellent number.
In the event of a tie vote, one of
the council could break it, until I
remember that trees, even ones

of different species, are forever
linked underground, their rooty
fingers holding tight to each other
in a perennial pinky swear.

Which means, I suppose, that
there are no ties. That everything
between them is unanimous,
that they come to agreement

without weapons or argument
as a single body—without words,
angry or otherwise—which seems
something of a miracle,

an excellent way to operate between
conscious, caring souls, everyone
looking out for—imagine it—
everyone else.

•••

(for Al and Terri Wolf with love and thanks
for their week of hospitality in Port Ludlow, Washington)