Little, hiding, flaking twigs
that spring quickly by waters.
These busy trees do not rise proudly
or bend with prominence
But gather together on edges.
Singing, making a chorus of music
with constant wind.
Their little treasures rise quickly and fall.
Maybe never seen, never climbed to such height,
Perhaps the curse of fisher’s lines
or refuge for downy flakes nest.
Unsung, Unembelished,
Unaided and nestled on hidden shores.
Seen only by hours of river waving by,
to whom they lift a happy
voice of praise.
The Joseph Factor 