Slowly through the switches we left the dead. Broom sedge and branch wood, shedding skin to bone. One of them rain-sun, more cloud than anything else hours. The minute the light made it, green petals became white, our bones mist. The woods will be dogwood white soon. Low trees, they hide halfway up the oaks all year. Yesterday the turn we took from Oneonta unhitched tree from hill. Another month of leafing and rivering and our cabin will be hidden as if it never existed. The hawk, the one that cries out on the northwest border moved in closer. Wonder when he quits circling to take up at the far oak again. That tree keeps our roots from washing.