tangle of uprooted vines
yellowing grass underneath —
no clocks to turn back

nicotiana —
white flowers even brighter
as the sun slips down

bare branches at last —
in between bouts of raking
we touch wood for luck

cold night air
and the scent of pine needles —
our gloved hands touch

the sound of acorns
falling into the leaves below
as the fog burns off

all the grandfathers
christened by grandbabies
who could say Pop-Pop

at the forest’s edge
a flock of wild turkeys
trading escape tips

Northern harrier
banking hard to double back
over our gasps

November morning —
wide open blue sky a prize
after all that fog