Unscreened weatherworn the doorjamb melts into what I remember was our private yard: the flowers on the tree (some red, some white) have blossomed into leaves sung green. The chickadees twitch among trunks searching for pebbles. The young birds eat them up and eat whatever else they find which pleases them. --By some hidden wind they ruffle to walls in the usual hollows together with a few early leaves. Yellow and sun-white predominate. These are the colors of fullness and wait. --But somehow my shrill eyes are missing you among all August sways on the stem because it is warm as flowers go.