Rounded winters and flat wind play across the leaves of the huckleberry tree
Ever so gently the dew glistens in a dollop and falls prey to gravity
It is soaked into the damp earth, one day to be returned
For now the darkness makes the huckleberries brood with midnight contemplation
Nature is what we are not
Forever there and yet blissfully unaware
That is until we uproot the huckleberry tree
And in its vengeful wrath we bow down
Returned to what is needed
Our lives are slightly malignant
Yet we remain so stalwart in our mind
We are not better that we are
Bow down to the huckleberry tree- it must feed.