Their calls peal across
the river, telling the time —
finding each other.

His nose to the sun
in the warm November grass —
it seeps, seeps, seeps in.

Sun caught in maples
on the first of November —
the chill comes in quick.

A nuthatch honks and
hides in the pines as we pass,
the gingko, pleading.

Sun dogs overhead
while the gingko holds its leaves
as a third false sun.

Red in the sunlight,
wall-screw moss grows in soft lines
like a universe.

The path disappears
behind us as we're walking,
we never notice.

It’s coming undone,
the tree that lost all its leaves,
shadow in daylight.

With sad recklessness
that doesn’t see tomorrow,
you lost yourself.

The rose breaks in fall,
the moon is a silver bowl,
stars gather in both.

Slanted in the light
at the evening river,
four glowing oak trees.

We’re swallowed by it —
the clouds making a bright sheen
on the wide river.

These trivial things
that distract me from what moves
mysteriously.

Totem in the woods,
Beech tree carved with initials,
hearts fused in the knots.

Body smooth as stone,
neck like a flying kite tail —
sandhill crane in fall.

Unfazed by cold nights,
marigolds in October
grow like there’s no end.

The curtain of night
closes on the old forest
you and I walk through.

At the evening marsh,
the sun and the lily pads
float in the grasses.

At the bridge’s edge
we’re thrown into the river
by long warm shadows.

Arms out and alive,
the old oak at the river,
fixed under the sky.