Night Tree

a praise poem

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Feeling too static and shy to meet
strangers, I sit alone in a camp
chair at a lakeside birthday party
and watch the sunlight fade

through the branches of a tree.
What kind of tree? I don't care.
A tree doesn't grow less beautiful
because I don't know its name.

People are the same way. I am
sure that I'd find good friends
among these partygoing strangers
but I've turned that darkening

tree into my beautiful companion
instead. I wonder how long
this tree has stood in this park?
It's tall and wide so maybe

one hundred years? Maybe
longer? I have no clue. I'm not
sure if the tree is aware of how
old it is, though I remember 

reading about scientific tests
where plants communicated
with one another and reacted
to stress, which indictated

that plants might feel fear.
If that's true then plants
must feel joy and boredom,
as well. So I wonder if this

tree is bored by the three
different parties happening
near it right now—if it's been
bored by us sandal-wearing

humans for the past century.
Is it bored by me staring 
at its dark limbs and crown
while wondering why I feel

this particular affection
for it? What's the source
of this affection? I ponder
for a few minutes and then

realize that this city tree
resembles the tree that grew
behind my childhood home.
Then I'm transported back

to the reservation nights
when I could see thousands
of stars—thousands of suns—
and entire other galaxies.

I can barely see any stars
in this city sky. There is too
much ambient light created
by tens and tens of thousands

of people and places. I love
this city. I love its many people
and places but I'm lonely
for the solitude of my rural

youth. I'm lonely for that tree
towering over my childhood.
So I speak to the city tree
towering over me now. I say,

"Dear tree, how about you
and I pretend that I'm a child
again? How about we let these
these strangers remain strangers

while I hear my mother, alive
again, dancing with my father,
also alive again, to a tribal
song that's 15,000 years old."