We walk up the hill
not sure how far deep
our feet will sink.

It is just December
and the day is bright
the pines and fir and spruce
are everywhere.

We raise our heads
from the new trail to see their heights
some look store bought
even though they have never been inside.

I am drawn to a sparse one
out by itself
away from the clusters
it is nearly perfectly balanced.

The wind rises and falls
the trees recognize the breezes
and cold as they do their last dance
and then the sap and blade and falling.

Morgan Bazilian is a Professor of Physics and a poet.

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