Green algae jewels
skimmed in through her lowered beak,
the only sound here.

Flying by moonlight,
the last crickets still singing,
geese leave in a V.

Frost coming this week,
the light has already changed—
finding the edges.

Everything is green
under the overstory—
even cricket song.

Fooled by October—
always going too far out,
for its false promise.

The October sky—
hold this up to understand,
to feel, to make sense of.

Happy to be home,
thankfulness beyond measure,
the smile in the eyes.

Loneliness at dusk,
an unfamiliar city—
the buildings turn pink.

Full afternoon sky—
late summer chicory blue,
September moves on.

Providence morning,
dogs go for their daily walk
under the steeple.

Teasel, free to grow,
a tall, thorny family—
curled rough together.

Even your damp ears—
not much is better than this,
reading poetry.

A change in the light,
clouds fold, unfold above us,
goldenrod, a bed.

Feather in the grass
the color of the forest,
a setting red sun.

The moon is up there—
the thinnest morning sliver,
sun coming up fast.

Husks of milkweed blooms,
rough and gray like beached seashells
let go of soft seeds.

Above goldenrod,
sky that looks like a blue lake,
boats slowly drift in.

Turkeys rest in trees,
cicadas sing all day long,
bees, wild for thistle.

Cut to take it home—
rose from my mother’s garden,
perfect yellow thing.

Crickets sing all day,
my dog and I, on our walk,
yawn and look and smile.