The simple chirp of wings
drawn one upon another
Like hooks tossed overboard
to dredge the heart for memories
Of sun-dappled leaves awaiting
their swan song in the Grand cycle
Full of death yet used for life
in the next tilt of the axis
The natural metronome of their cadence song tells me that we have reached
October
Where shade and sun fight for territory
to soon be overtaken by the bitter sting of frost
Travelling skies set with moons fit for harvest
while woodsmoke wafts through windows
Soon to be shut
where crickets sing no more.
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