Someone walks over in a storm,
Wind whipping the branches, to talk
About the larches near the house,
How, if they fell, they’d break your roof.
Rain spattering him, he clomps off
To study the chances of snags.
Not his trees, not his roof, not yours,
Except in that you’ve borrowed this
For a few months’ summer shelter.
From the back window, you can watch
Him studying the swaying trunks
For the excitement, as he said,
And you can see down to the lake
Now lined with fine white, curly waves,
But up here you’re too far to spot
Fresh shoreline sweepers you’ll swim past.
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