They speak, these of the congregation,
as the wind moves unseen when it comes,
only heard as each one is touched by it,
and looked for when it leaves the garden silent.
Then it stirs the maple, leaves like a wave
under its touch rustle down words to stillness.
The wind gone again, then appears below
where, distant, the anxious elm flutters.
The bird stares down from limbs not her own.
The rattle snake coils up and waits
among the pruned branches and starving weeds
and parched soil sifts in from out like sand
until the wind, gathered up, drives these gone
and the trees groan among themselves and sing.