a gnarled oak

Cold front falls.
The Killdeer scatter.
A hawk dives.

Waiting on the fence,
autumn’s first chipping sparrow—
How far he has flown.

November morning—
distant howling coyotes
under Orion.

Autumn’s first gadwall,
awaiting his southbound friends,
swims lonely circles.

Post oak savannah—
A flock of scissor-tails flies
south down the Brazos.

Street puddles
reflect still treetops.
I drive through the sky.

Chemical plant flares,
a fireball burns the night sky.
It’s never dark here.

A northerly breeze—
waves flow and eddies swirl through
grass that’s gone to seed.

When I move,
the fog becomes rain.
I stand still.

Crisp blue fall morning.
Deer turds litter the driveway.
A half-eaten plant.