The Happiness of Trees

I slept that cool season on a screen porch by the bay
    with the creatures and insects singing so loudly
my mind seemed to join them—out there without me—
    to move around like a breeze from form to form
and then to return as a fox or a cicada,
    some other night creature, to slip back inside me
humming whatever it had heard, patterns
    I couldn't sing along with but felt inside
like the happiness of trees when a soft wind
    turns their leaves' underbellies up to the sky
and makes the sap rise. I loved to wake
    before myself, to silence and fog.
Sometimes I got up and walked out into the chilly grass
    to disappear and sometimes I turned over as though
this happiness might last forever, and slept
    just a while longer, until the first birds sang.
The Flood
Michael Hettich

The Flood

Michael Hettich

Floating Wolf Quarterly Cover_wolf