As wind stirs through an opening in woods,
green feathers long as plumes on peacocks write
in pools of sunlight from the canopy.
And what they scribble must be dank as earth
with ink of roots and alphabet of worms
and rot of last year’s leaves and fallen bugs.
The syllables they seem to scratch now rise,
yes, levitate, a spinning hologram
of vapor glittering in the shaft of light:
a visitation of illuminated gnats
above the shadowy glade’s scriptorium.