a gnarled oak

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.

Cool rain drizzles slow,
pooling on the wet concrete.
Oil in the puddles.

Black birds ride
trees bending to fall’s
first cold winds.