On 23rd Ave.

A single tree shines green above the concrete, the sun cutting through it from the side, resting on the leaves the way I once saw light filter through alder trees at the river, back when I stood ankle-deep in the catkin-littered creek, and followed it out to the moss, and crawdads, and swirls of slate-gray; back when I plunged into the cold water, wearing my heavy water sandals, and floated weakly on my back, staring up at the cottonwoods, and the osprey perched high in its branches.