White pines gather in a grove of three.

They spread their feathered wings and brood the yard at dusk.

I surrender my notepad to the porch table.

Low clouds of amethyst and lead gray the garden like a filmy blanket edged in satin.

Purple columbines cluster in fuzzy gray stars.

Lilybuds open--glazed yellow candles.

Rush of scarlet to the pine’s high perch, the tanager folds his night black wings.

He erupts and scratches out his commentary.