The tree is yellow;
Dry leaves rasp along the road;
A chilly wind blows.
They are more like wood--
Hanging, curled up, dry brown leaves.
Returning to source.
There is one leaf left,
Desiccated on the branch,
Resisting the wind.
Nestled in the pine:
Dry leaves among green needles;
Mixing of seasons.
Gray and delicate
Old wasp's nest lies abandoned;
High above, crow caws.
Large splash on the road--
Small puddles of thrown coffee;
A jolt for the deer?
Ferns begin to change
From vital green to pale beige.
Gray car races past.
Tree tops trembling
As the the wind rustles the leaves
Sending them downward.
Bright orange berries,
Just in time for Halloween;
Witches in the woods.
Last black eyed Susan
Still smiles at the rising sun
As long as she can.
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