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Fall, and the summer people

move on.

The peeling trucks

at the boat ramp--

the piebald rafts

drifting in shallows--


give way to shuttered windows

and listing red buoys.


There are voices across the water,
a fisherman strays by the reeds,
but the thickets wear a peignoir
of gathered silver mist.


I took the hammock down yesterday.

The woodpeckers on the roof are gone; 

soon deer will emerge

and leave pearly tracks in the frost.


I saw geese lift towards the south,

but I remain through winter.


The lake comes alive in November.

It has a thousand tongues;

they call down the yellow leaves

in the night rain.


Category: My articles | Added by: Kristin (09.20.2011)
Views: 636 | Comments: 1 | Rating: 0.0/0
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