The Brush

You were watching wind and sun
Tossing in some scrubby trees
In back of a parking lot.

You don’t leave. They leave. It stops.
That’s what you thought as you watched.
Only what’s staying can take note

That anything’s left. What’s left
Also stays, out of range now,
But not to itself. What’s gone

Can’t have left itself. A plane
Drones out of sight. The scrub brush
Dances, spraying wind and light.