Miyawaki’s map reminds me 

of the stairstep snapshots 

in our new Easter outfits, 

my brother the shrubs, 

middle sister understory, 

and I am canopy.

When the stream ran dry in August, dreams 

of a pond peeping wit tree frogs plumed 

like wildfire smoke seen from the screened porch.  

In LA toads clambered over concrete, traversed trails 

to reach refuge in 1,000 square feet. Here, where invasive vines 

once twined the slope behind the woodshed, the bare red Virginia 

clay, stripped of thorny finery, could don a fibrous coconut husk coat,

 tendrils of a capsule of Shenandoah trees anchor in close quarters,

pinned coordinates in a tiny forest.