Signs

No trespassing,
the sign says,
and the gate looks unfriendly,
though trees behind
beckon brightly on green hills
shadowing their arching arms
on velvet grass.
So will someone come,
I ask,
to arrest us?
snatch camera from our hands,
lock us up,
handcuffed,
for shooting wildly
at the cows?
Or will they be amused
at people pointing long black things
at trees that look today
the same as yesterday,
and nothing is amiss,
cows graze the daily green,
birds come and go
on leafless boughs?
No trespassing,
the sign answers
keep out—
but the trees call,
put up their signs of spring
to keep those fenceposts
out,
let wonderers
wander
in.