By Eyes to the Trees

The last thread of sun
In the hand at dusk
Looked manufactured

Out of dust itself
And not so much light
As the shadow’s edge,

Not so much gold bird
As line where the bird
Had perched and left tracks.

It moved to the trees.
This was not a thread
That would ever get

Its thousands of years
Vibrating through space.
This wasn’t starlight,

Wouldn’t ever be.
It had unspooled straight
Into this local dirt,

Just minutes past launch,
And now only stitched
Some mind to the trees.