The driveway cottonwood sings his death song and dances his last dance. Hear him rushing and rustling, all urgent in the chilly wind. He bears cold truth on singing shoulders and renders unto autumn what it earns.
Oh, there are tomatoes grinning gold and red all on the ground. And beans blushing and squashes swelling.
And a thousand blazing blackbirds sit, creaking, in the honey locust.
But don't misremember cottonwood song. He sings of things impending.
On hot summer thunderstorm days he sings of fear of lightning.
And beats a racing leafy counterpoint to the rumbling and the flashing.
Like the heartbeat of the weather.
Watch his top to gauge the wind, its speed, direction,
The depth of its intent.
But now, alas, he is letting go of green and bringing on the long dark cold.
I will close my ears and listen only to the Carolina Wren. Bright soldier of good cheer, he is singing on the shady porch, lighting the air like a flying candle.
Slow down, old autumn, and linger warm and cozy. Keep as close as burdocks to your sister spring and bring her this way quickly....
Thank you, that is all.
***Listen and you can hear the geese in the background under the din of the assorted blackbirds
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