This wide, aged dogwood blooms with the ivory of old teeth. Last year, a flock of cedar waxwings vanished among new leaves and fading blossoms like these. Branches trace the decades, mapping their one road home. Under the hill spreads this tree’s shy twin. Gnats explore my forearms, speckle my glasses. I square my feet on the grass. Twig, branch, limb, trunk. This tree. The back of my hand. Wasp, wren, seed pod. I find the rhythm. This tree’s heart beats in seasons. Wise one whose eyes blink once a year. I am fed. By what, I cannot say.