The Jazz Tree

by Sara Backer

We thought it ended

with a long screech
of ripping timber, the spar
jarring the earth.
 
But in winter, in our fireplace,
the maple tree began to scat.
Mimicked squirrel
and raccoon scrabbles.
 
Hissed rivers, whistled hawks.
Thumped clay, shifting
weight. Popped
and crinkled bebop riffs,
 
sparking the mating
of flame and draft.
 
 
first published in Urban Spaghetti
 

157th Weekly Poetry Contest
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