Windbag

the clawing tree
snagged the man-made cloud
in one of its lofty snares
as it sits on the sunny
southern slope of the hill
its shadows are its roots
black lines tracing through
the greening blades of grass
they are slithering serpents
under the wind's reigns
the inorganic rustling
of the man-made cloud
mimics the absent leaves
the tree knew before winter
those leaves that blew
and floated and fell
tossed and torn and dined
upon by the warming soil
and unseen meandering roots
those leaves the litter
of the thoughtless trees
that catch the litter of these