Night’s silent choir,
Patiently gathered around the roots of trees,
Inside the river’s long bend,
And in the shadows of boulders,
Passing time under morning’s great bridge.
The orange of maples.
Paws of a lone bear.
Tracks of a fisherman’s boots
Through the damp, grey sand.
These might be cobblestone dreams
On a lazy afternoon,
But that was October’s rhythm:
Summer’s back porch, shaded
In creaky planks
And sliced tomato gluttons.
Now, the soft arc of light,
Chilled in air gone stiff and still,
Begging for hunched voices,
That dare not stir old winds,
From behind sedge and willow.
The groans and gripes of water on rocks,
Goodbyes of frogs and leaves and liquored blackberry sunsets,
The gratitudes of full moon clouds,
A gift of rain.
The long gaze of night
Will soon turn us to pebble and stone,
Smooth and round, barely colored,
In the fading light.