I reason with the crown of the tree. Surely
from this fourth floor window, we are equals now.
I calculate the trajectory, whether it would
catch me if I threw myself at it. I comb
for clues from the uneasy rocking of the branches,
the slow swimming of its fingers stirring the air.
There must be something in the moth flutterings
of the mylar balloon trapped between the twigs;
a pincered ghost, failing to tear itself
away even with the wind as an ally. You can’t blame
the Poplar for wanting to hoard it, the only fruit
it has ever held onto or is capable of bearing.
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