The black walnut tree stands naked
against an unseasonably blue sky.
Migrating birds gone south, we are left with this:
a rake, a shovel, a shift in time.
Fig leaves, yesterday drooping like surrender flags,
drop all at once, paper the sidewalk
several layers thick. Apple leaves litter
themselves on top like an afterthought.
At dusk, tundra swans and snow geese
wing overhead, looking for a soft landing.
Later, the moon will rise silverblue, majestic.
Let more leaves fall. Let winter come.
