The Wind Will Tell Them

Old wooden owl stares
Unblinking in the sunshine.
He's seen many suns.












Falling yellow leaf
Floating gently to the ground
Makes no sound at all.

Hens cluck, rooster crows;
Happy runner jogs past me
Smiling his hello.












Leaves hanging limply
Don't realize that they are dead.
The wind will tell them.













Were there running feet
That left this bike on the lawn,
To find something else?

Shadows and brown leaves;
Sunlight filtering through trees--
Sunday morning walk.

With its leaves outstretched
Soft mullein begins to fade.
Winter's paleness comes.












Coming from shadows
A couple drifts down the road
Towards nowhere in Fall.