Question mark

In a distant field, a white house glows like a sail in the late-March sun. A bluejay on the ridge ahead screams like a Hollywood eagle, otherwise known as a red-tailed hawk. I do a double-take at a dark shape upslope, but it’s just an old stump.

March wind
scouring the mountainside
for a gravestone

Christ it’s cold
the black soil gripping
sassafras roots

conjoined maples
rubbing together
that shriek

by a question mark butterfly
am I a tree

old maple
all the green springs
of its seedlings

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