The sun cracked its light
on a solitary piece of pinewood
drifting in a mirage, riverbank mud
     stuck in its broken skin
     filed smooth with sandpaper
     wind. I hear it speak
the color of sadness, its bristle
cones parched like ancient
memories crouched in the sand
    yet its branches sing
with arms stretched high to sky
in silent prayer. I can smell
their plea.