The old sugar maple that no longer
has a lush crown of leaves, still
has paved the ground with scarlet,
orange, golden and all gradients.
Even in its old age, in summer a city
of many birds. Now the fallen leaves
are the brightest things around
with few flowers still in bloom, birds
in their drab winter plumage. Turkey
hens are beginning to gather, soon
to choose their seasonal gobbler.
Squirrels race from limb to limb
stopping only to bury acorns.
Their brains can hold a thousand
records of each hidden cache.
The swallows and warblers
weeks ago formed into flocks,
heading on their hazardous
journey south. Summer crops
have withered, beans pulled.
We are battening down to endure
the fierce and beautiful storms.