Feet propped against porch railing,
I breathe in autumn's mounting chill.
Beyond the porch, the giant sycamore
catches afternoon sun on bone white bark.
Yellow leaves drop, amputated
hands scratching air as they fall.
Limbs sway, inscribing grief in the wind.

Standing up straight, I grab
the shotgun and stride past
mute chrysanthemums toward
the woods to meet the dying light.