Arborealish

From a hilltop in Walcha.

Most of the view is treetop,

tufts of olive green and umber

folding light into vast creases

of ever fading mountainside,

over exposed in the sunrise.

The trees near you do not

resemble those in view, paper

bark splintered fractals cast

in never changing postures,

grey to their timeless roots.

In the valley they resemble

pines, pencil forest soldiers

lined in wave formation, but

this transition is illusion, the

trees here are all the same,

save for a clearing in the north

where intersecting meadows

nestle their parabolic curves

into a geometry of wandering

pale gold, where a rusty power

pole simulates the life to come.