Things must have slow for the editor to pull
this off the wire and place it on an unimportant
page of my morning paper.  Why not the front
page?  Isn't someone a hero who overcomes enormous
odds a hero?  For Christs'sake, the poor animal
escaped on the way to the packing house (this all
must be true for it was in the paper).  I hope that,
before the bullet slammed into her gentle face, her mind
was back in the pasture inspecting, then chewing each
blade of grass as if she had all the time in the world.

Moments after the rain stops
the sun glistens on things so bad
it hurts to look; and steam lifts off
the roofs and still-deserted streets
like something terrible has just happened.

As I write this I see you hurtling
across the delta beneath a low ceiling.
There is rain in the forecast.  Your wallet
is fat with cash and rides high in an
anxious hip pocket.  A window is cracked
to pull the smoke.  It's lunch-time and
you're checking the Garmin for a
Crackle Barrel, all the while wondering
if the casino will take a check.

i.

The year's first falling
leaf against his nose:
does my dog think back
to the Autumn before?
He must, for he is so happy.

                  ii.

It is so obvious to me:
this tall pile of leaves
belongs to the wind, not
to my red rake and black
plastic bag flapping (empty)
at my feet.

                 iii.

A boy (and his dog) in
the woods, walking on leaves
as thick as memories;
so glad to be alive
although not yet knowing
(what that means).

A story told in the raspy gasps and whispers
of old men whose only choice then was to remain,
as their fathers and grandfathers had, where
the days were as dark as the nights.

Where are they now, the young men who worked to keep
you warm in Winter, to boil the water for your coffee?

A pair of worn, black socks hanging out to dry?
Two withered figs clinging to a dead branch?
And why does their laughter sound so mechanical?

Those crazy leaves of Autumn,
dead before they touch the ground

(just like my Uncle Clark with
his massive heart attack).

Hopping and skipping across
the Interstate like drunken old men,
hit by cars just to be sure.

Someone is there with a camera
but in her mind she is alone,
running a ridge high above the Parkway,
trying to avoid the reckless wildflowers
in her path, many which match the gold in her hair.

She imagines the sounds of the cars and
motorcycles below as a distant swarm
of bees on their way to finding gold
of their own.  Suddenly, high meadow drops
into a balsam forest and she is gone,

taking the wildflowers with her.  I put my camera
away and return to the trail-head to wait.