Neat little story/poem. There is a lot going on beneath its surface.
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 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.