by Martin Willitts Jr

August trails across the sky,
rippling shadows.
It is finished raining.

The quiet cold remains,
trees dazed by the sudden changes,
ripen with crisp eminence.
Juncos quiver on maple branches.

Soon, September’s wingspan will darken
and lengthen into drizzle-chills.

Already, the clutch of winter berry
and red holly berries
begin their slow flight of appearing,
preparing for the resurgence of fall.
Floods of geese practice landing
and flying,
eventually leaving,
only to return.

The season warbles.
Days unravel a spool of thread.
Yesterday disappears into the froth-churning,
purpose-driven,
dazzling adrenalin-thrust uncertainty.

During windbreak in the cinnamon night,
the world reduces to incomprehensible silence
under the deadfall of leaves.