Eyes of the World

I step up to my window to see bare branches of the oak tree swaying in tune with my spine rocking comfortably planted at home. The glare of a single street light beyond the circuit of branches reflects light onto moist air that produces a nervous orb around me and the tree. I look outside from inside the window as the oak tree looks inside from outside at me. Staring at the eye of the world I can’t see myself for the tree. I see the tree for a moment but the eye speaks more of a soliloquy.