The trees lean as they will—
left, right, or somewhere in the middle.
The are rooted deep, casting honest shadows,
quiet, patiently growing this way and that;
together making a forest
more beautiful by their differences.
The creek hurries forward,
cutting through without permission,
clutching every fallen scrap—
a leaf, a stone,
the smallest rumor of soil.
It knows only the truth it gathers around itself,
its surface bright with conviction,
blind beyond its own course.
Above, the sky endures—
it has watched storms trade hands,
knows the trees for what they are,
knows the restless babbling of water,
and remains slow to judge,
as many are—those wise and open skies,
older than the arguments below.