The birds have sweetened their song,
louder, lovelier in a tree
that had been traumatized.
The axe applied -- months ago
mutilated branches that revealed
no signs of ruin or decay.
The hard hats came and she, a white dressed
Emily, had no control
over the courtyard. Pale shavings
and longer shadows defined
the afternoon. At that point
What could rise from the dogwood ash,
but an urge
sensed by distant finch and wren
to return nesting
in the sparse choir -- celebrating
what had been left.
Shade leaves and rings
stained wider from a rainfall
that blessed the desert.
and bade a girl to sing,
her slender throat
made to shine like quicksilver.
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