All the news is tree buds in December after a warm spell, the ground’s sodden give a springboard for global speculation: everything cellular deems it’s spring— as if for longer than living memory leaves haven’t prepared against their brittle fall the bulletin of their bursting forth again. All the news is bird song in February, as if it didn’t break the ice each year, the cardinal’s Do what you know, you don’t know— as if no one up north had taken note of how the chits resume when the light fans out even as night’s wings dip twenty below and the lake stiffens under the air’s touch. I’d like to respond to the next-to-last caller: look how, even taking the longest view you want it immediate, chafe at delay. You want to prove what we fail to imagine. The revolution will begin with pruning, pruning anticipating memory— We’ll have to leave that thought. We’re out of time. The news, again, the eye-on-the-sky forecast, variable clouds and sun, winds out of— No, not out of time; helplessly in it. Look how we, too, conform to the revolving rhythm, some lignifying, others broadcasting beyond the air we breathe, as if rootless eternity were our territory.