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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Peace at the river,
deer feed on the other side,
birdsong in all ears.

It reaches for me —
late sunlight on the river,
not too late for me.

Birds take their places
in trees along the river —
October sinks in.

I call myself back
from the depths, the dark places,
for a second chance.

Evening sun falls
behind the shimmering trees,
you say, “Let's turn back.”

These soft gentle days,
no worry in the shadows —
deer and trees alike.

We take the path through
the dark winding woods to find
the snowy egret.