The trail behind the house is slippery this time of year
with coarse dust that rolls out from under your feet.
It is so dry that maple and alder leaves are already falling
through the bright air landing yellow, brown and green,
foretelling the end to a peculiar season.
We are heading for autumn, when rain will knock bright leaves
from the trees and cracks in the ground will heal with water.
The wind will return to tatter the corn left standing in the garden
or sheaved on the porch for Halloween among the pumpkins,
a reminder that things turn brittle, even as they change.
The moon tonight is gibbous but lights the forest all the same.
You can see the trail heading into the dark woods away
from our home. The air is still and the trees are silent,
yet in the distance a train by the river blasts its whistle
filling this space with motion.
--D. H. Bleything
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