You are not the sunset when it's gone

You are not the sunset when it's gone,
your space taken by a crowd of stars
outshining your glow,
the fading red-purple sky.

Rather, you are the jet stream above me,
sun-less, cloudless and lingering
after the jet has long passed,
its boom already faint.

You are not the flock of birds circling
past the trees with outstretched wings
lifted by the wind, their reflections transient
on the still lake waters.

You are this young tree and I am the lake.
Your roots are with me, on me, into me
from where I recline under your shadow
watching birds, jet, sun, and stars.