Dānce

—Waving hands.

The crowd,
  the mos(h)s pit,
  swaying
  to the sound—the closeness.
—Move away!

Downish (back there),
—rhythm(?)
Sedate?
Per(')haps (not).

    Calming?

One of the trees at the back of my property is truly majestic! A magnificent Eucalypt inhabited by a family of magpies. It is always swaying, waving — or so it seems. This tree has a branch that hangs down—low always in the way, but I dare not remove it. I am not that cruel or thoughtless. The entire structure may fall.

All closeness is?
Is volatile!

Compulsory
  participation,
  else let it go!

Enthusiasms (not) for everyone.

The weak succumb
  from bre(ath)eze no more—

   and

     f
     a
     l
     l
     .

This was the first poem written for Thĕ (Study of) Trees, but it didnot find its way to first position. Why? It is true that this tree was the inspiration, but there are other things that come before we dance. Even we lowly humans must master walking (among other necessary things) first.