Fall

Crows dropped from the sky
as though they were cinders
falling from the hot breath
of some dark fire;

The wind was pepper and grit
ripped from the coalyard
and the rust of an old truck.

The
remonstrance of dead things
filled the day so much
that I grieved
a little
for the sun's doomed grace;

and hated the way
an arrow sharp and tin-tasting
season
made me think of you.