Poised for the Last Strike

Back on Yerry Hill
With a million shades of green.
(Still there are joggers).

Green yellow billows--
Forsythia on my lawn--
Leaves, and not blossoms.

Small orange berries--
The pumpkin color of Fall,
Punctuating it.

Everything is still,
This Sunday Scorpio morn;
Even streams whisper.

This broken old fence;
Many times it has called me--
In imperfection.

The old mother logs
Now cradle dead brown leaves
As well as lush moss.

Sumac silhouettes
Splashed against the mottled sky
Cast their own darkness.

Coiled on the hard road:
Snake run over by a car
Poised for the last strike.