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

The bee, still buzzing
in October, around the
white anemone.

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.”

A pattern emerged
early and told them both to say,
“Your story is mine.”

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.

I can hear his teeth
chewing the leaves and branches —
life is a bounty.

It comes in with grace —
daybreak — under the vapor,
I’m fooled, under clouds.

Wings flap in the creek,
ducks bathe and preen and begin
to turn beautiful.

Wings like glass panels,
the bumblebee’s devotion —
October coming.

Now they’ll go to seed,
we cut down spent sunflowers,
heads rest in the bed.

The blurry treeline,
under the clouded half moon,
I'm tired, worried.

She’s crunching acorns
every night at the river,
evening birds sing.

Up with the half moon,
moving clouds, stars, mystery,
I disappear here.

No one could make them
feel more perfect in my hand,
the weight of acorns.

Acorns like jewels,
smooth talismans in my hand,
crunch under our feet.

I’ve documented
the endless wonders we’ve seen,
and what have we learned?

The comfort of trees
on the banks of our river,
full of darting fish.

The deer, all angles,
body the color of bark —
appears, disappears.