Weathering
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.
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