The seven-story trees
on the jogger-thronged hill
beyond your back garden
register the breeze
with a convulsive thrill
of all their bright foliage,
a lightening of their burden
that I in turn acknowledge,
seated at your desk,
with the opulent awakening
of my own nerve-tree —
just in time to see
some strange woman beckoning,
her dog’s doggy burlesque.