They Murmur of Snow

Chill is in the air;
Indian summer's over--
Winter in the wings.

The sun and the clouds
Play their game of hide and seek;
Now, the world is gray.

Dead leaf on the road
Poised as if it's going to strike
At the hard pavement.

As the clouds gather
Over silhouetted trees
They murmur of snow.

 

 Wind blows up the road
Filling my ears with whispers;
I put on my gloves.

 

 Last summer's stream bed
Marked by a path of gray leaves
Winds into the woods.

 

 A sharp gust of wind;
Dry leaves skitter on the road,
Fleeing the unseen.

Now the wind is king;
All the tall trees bow to it,
And the dry leaves dance.

Clinging steadfastly
Shiny green orbs frame the sky:
November apples.

 

 This rotten old stump
Has become its own congress
Of disparate parts.

The old monster stump
Still holds the rock in its jaw,
After ten winters.

 

 While dry and barren,
Ancient hollow milkweed husk
Still shakes in the wind.