Across the great floor space that is this green,
the trees gavotte, their forms the movement spread;
at once, the graceful bow and stepping clean
of trunk, caught up in branches overhead
that spiral up in musical expression,
so many fingers daintily held out,
as if in some arboreal dimension
sufficed, translating this to be about
what we perform; but on a grander scale,
everything in a time frame frozen there,
stretching out sky-wide as dancing trees will,
in sweeps of tinted cloud, an orchestra
conducted by a genius, in suspense
to our eyes; but in trees, divine, intense.
The gavotte is an ancient folk dance, which form is fancifully assumed by trees,
being ancient too.