the leaves are falling, the ridge rising into view
I know it was there all along, but now I see
the still blue wave, and the rocks invisible still
silent behemoths veined with quartz, seamed with thin dirt
enough for moss, lichen, fern, and small determined trees
revealed when I climb to the crest of this slow wave
birds light in bare ash trees, arrange themselves like leaves
leaf-shaped with their folded wings, they sit dark and still
till they lift their wings, leave the ash trees bare again
the hickory nuts knock at our roof, leaves fly
golden on warm, grey air, soft as our grey cat’s fur
crows and ravens outcry the wind that carries them
the mist is a river moving over mountains
now and then the sun gleams through lighting wings and leaves
I am here solid, porous, rooted, blown, alive
in a green field, backed by the russet wood, Monkshood
purple cowls atop tall stalks that waited till now
to yield these shocking blooms and skew Fall’s color scheme