Sky gloom and gleam.
Road rain-glaze glare.
Infinite light glitters
in fern-fronds, fir-needles,
flashes from great gold maples.
The local crow
patrols the road.
The local crow
knows.
And discloses,
reports, remarks,
speaks freely.
Though no doubt keeping
certain dark
secrets.
As the old oaks
are swift and shy
in their delicate flower,
so the reticent nobility
of the bronze oak autumn
lasts only briefly.
But the short-lived, long-leaved,
roadside willows will not
be hurried into gold,
and hold their green intention
to leaf out long before April.
The next rain crouches
in the yoke of the hills,
dark-grey puma
with a misty tail
lashing the silent
trees of the forest.