Copyright © by P.R. Lowe, October 1, 2003

The squirrels are out en masse and

the grasses turn umber behind our backs.

What we lack in slumber we pass for

daydreaming in the light and

birds huddle on the line, discussing impending flight.

Chipmunks incognito, carry burdens twice their size,

passing right before us in their burning sienna disguise.

Budding jack-o’-lanterns are consumed in the darkness

by families of dear; their fear of survival

rivaling their own good sense,

while behind the fence, a coon travels the field

with her children barely weaned,

gleaning for a scrap of corn to ward off

starvation and hunger, while winter

in her slumber, rises up to stretch and sigh.

The road inundated with wilting butterflies

turns red with portentous cold,

and the old bear makes his peace with one last  hibernation;

the inclination to sleep, to make peace with our angst

becomes a little dearer; clearer to us all.

The shadows reach through the trees

and stretch across the highway,

like long bony fingers, grasping at the last breath of heat,

they meet the dazzling sunlit hills, where goldenrod spreads

like a virus, killing the essence of the season,

and without reason, I’m adrift on the day.

Silver jets and blackened crows occupy the same bit of sky

and in my eyes the dimensions seem to blend.

Somewhere far away, boats are docked and sails hauled in,

the clock-hand spins, and we begin again our dream;

the scheme of things just a shard away from touching,

making raking and pruning yards somehow redundant

in this incumbent season of the long shadows.