How Things seem when Moving Past Them

If all things be planar
They loom in size like giants in birth,
The silence of their growth is a sonar
Of the coming horror of the dearth.

(Imagine a sweep along a drive
With rows of trees side by side.
Each bushy crescence flying at your eye,
Another dark presence soon to spring from behind.)

And it seems the holy clouds,
Above the ground-things rushing to me,
Move more distant into the limitless blue spaces.

But nightly the beacon moon
Keeps high above the dear trees,
While black branches try to brush its bright faces.