Over the Oak

by Elizabeth Cunningham

In the wood by the river
there's an oak with six trunks
curving out and up
around a nest of leaves in the center.
I lie along the trunk
that reaches out over the river.
The water moves below me.
Above me the dry still-clinging leaves
are delicate against the sky.
They make me think of stars.

I hear voices in the distances
young, calling, laughing.
Girls, I think.
Then twelve wild swans
fly over the tree
their voices high and thin
and almost sweet
their wing-beat strong
in the still autumn air.