the last of the firewood
is piled up
in the lingering twilight
already
the moon is adrift and rising
in stately silence
through the ragged silhouette
of jack pine
full of promise
drunk with stories
and legend
of
the season unfolding
now
in softer hues
tinting crisp days
and
conjuring a deeper tint
into the depths of the nights
quieter now
songbirds flown and gone
mothers have called their children home
the silence deepens
the stillness settles
softly
expectant
crickets and moonlight
and moonlight
crickets
and moonlight
