It’s not the leaves that move.
Nor is it the Banyan tree.
The mind moves both of them,
as if they were constructed of
thoughts from the river’s basement,
Rising from the cracks,
where my grandfather used
to lay his line, like the idea of wind
and Banyan trees- not unlike the idea
of crawfish and trout, everything struck
with the face of awe, a holy agreement.
that we can all be residents of a sunlit world.