we stay out talking
until chased in by mosquitoes —
early autumn nights

a family of deer
stand quietly watching me —
I borrow stillness

they saw a fox once
but was it red, or grey? —
flickering memory

fallow season —
we think about cover crops
and wintering over

how we celebrate
when the evening air
turns cool again!

more than the old blanket
she wants her mother's hands
smoothing it out

even the creek
a little quieter now
as the days shorten

funeral planning —

she wonders whether her dress

seems sad enough

underfoot
the crunch and roll of acorns —
a rabbit looks up

getting up at first light
to make sure it's still there —
mid-autumn moon

all day long
looking at the place
where the bird had been

our neighbor's wood smoke
tickling the back of my throat —
autumn sneaking in

tell purple asters
to forget that anyone
ever called them weeds

a nearly full moon —
what will we try to outrun
tonight?

our shock worn down
by successive fire seasons —
orange sky again

fast-growing grass
and end-of-summer sales —
fall quickens her step

the season's first buck
refusing to move aside —
who was here first?

catching and tossing
spiders out onto the porch —
not ready for fall

windows rattling
in time with the thunder —
the storm lets itself in

counting all the ways
our fathers gave permission —
high grass left unmown

starry skies
above wide open fields —
she takes me there

summer at the lake —
catching perch just to feel them
swim away again

flashes of sunlight —
late-nesting goldfinches
and their world-building

eyeing the radar
to see if the rain
might start up again

all the flooded homes
connected by a new stream —
death shrinking the world

stepping stones
washed downstream in the flood —
we stand on the bank

rows of tiny leaves
on their way to something big —
one last planting

all that summer sun
in farmer's market baskets —
ripe figs and peaches

wind-whipped treetops —
a painted bunting holds on tight
singing and singing

newly downed trees
blocking our usual path —
hurricane season

smelling crabapples
as I crush them underfoot —
early September