The dead tree is the thin spike on the right.

In the dead tree, the nail-less finger that points at the sky, high as the tallest poplar, a woodpecker roosts. Each evening it calls from the neighbouring trees, calls a short, one-note cry as it flies to the dead tree, listens as it climbs to the top, but the call receives no answer. The old nest is empty now that the fledglings have flown, mate gone until next season perhaps. Autumn sun setting still strikes the bare tip, the dark hole, woodpecker sized, and fills it with warmth.

round and round the seasons go

the wind

the swirling water in the culvert

and love returns

with the spring

Photo© Gerry Zambonini

P.S. When I downloaded this photo, Wikipedia was down all over the world except here. Occasionally, living in the land time forgot has it’s advantages.