Autumn Walk

Sweet smell of wet leaves
thick in the still air
of a deep, narrow valley
sheltered between forested slopes.

The wind is turning
up in the straw-thatch field
where aspen are chewed down to pencils
on the ridge above the swale.

What stories would beavers write
and share in their winter dens?
Hymns to pond-light green
and gem-like? Hungry wolves?

The sky is seeping into winter.
Only one egg tonight, speckled
brown, a cool and palmable
galaxy flecked with stars

and even the stars are going
cold, little by little, finite
pockets in the infinite, and
there are holes in the pockets

where grains of fire slip through.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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