logs, limbs, and branches lying by,
tugged off the street: the side of
the street looks like the aftermath
of a logging: but today, oh, today,
the temperature has gone to 37 (that’s
Fahrenheit, son) and drip-drops are
falling everywhere, the birch slips
arching upward out of their burdens,
readying to snap their tresses loose
from the ground: you know, that
dense ramification of twigs birch
go off into: goodness, if you could
just throw poetry away the way ice
crystals fall out of the trees:
imagine if there could be so many
shiny centers in the, yep, setting
sun (actually, it’s still about an
hour up): oh, if only the brook
could not make any sound unless it
were filed away in the museum: the
wind when it blows, and lately it
hasn’t, shouldn’t be allowed to
trifle with so many leaves: and I
mean leaves, because believes it or
not, leaves are still on the trees!
snow came before frost this year,
hard frost I mean: so over by the
hill next to the bridge, snow bent
leaves over the road as for an arcade:
the traffic had to one-line
and slow as through a tunnel: it was
most remarkable, like reading a poem
by Stevens, somewhat brittle, and
truly trees were cracking and splitting
with loud report and hissy-splits:
there is just so much to learn: so
much: one thing you could count
is the birds: they’ve flown: up and
left: no song: and the crows play
with air currents but silently like
monks swimming in the pond, or monkeys
in the hot springs: this is the
fourth day