a gnarled oak

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.

Clouds dissolve into
sheets of featureless grey.
A shrike lands nearby.

After all the rain,
ragweed and fall elm begin—
I’m going inside.

Six a.m.
Broken glass! Kitchen.
That damn cat.

Flying V’s above-
not guitars, but birds playing
the lead for autumn.

Bats loop through the sky,
serrated wings weaving dawn.
Newspaper’s waiting.