In cities
tongues waggle
more than they ought
crows the blacksmith.

Listen to the leaves
recite their benedictions
in the weak autumnal light.
They clamber over themselves
to be better heard by willing ears.
Please be naked to their words.

Be quiet.
And in humble postures
listen to their murmur –
each flag scratching
against the other for meaning
in a procession of gusts
without end.