Cold glow of the glass; red maples let go their gold to the silent street.

Ice knots the deep creek; mid-stride, the great shadow halts in the frozen grass.

The heavy ash swings— catching only autumn wind; shadows stretch the dirt.

Four swallows return to the cracked and weathered nest— chattering of spring.

Smoke across the sand— on the tarmac, silent wings wait for early spring.

Past the iron fence— in cold grass, two amber eyes and an empty shoe.

Thick grease on the ice; a sudden flare in the dark— geese fly south through smoke.

Charred glass on the stone — across the empty runway, late November wind.

Boards across the glass; high tide creeping past the sill, warm rain smells of salt.

Cardboard on the steps, soaked through by the sudden rain— one cicada cries.

Glass cold to the touch; on the stoop, the shipping box fills with autumn rain.

On the seventh day, fingers trace the rising ribs— thin moon through the pine.

Brambles catch the fleece— the fierce leap of a young lamb scatters autumn frost.

Red leaf on the bough, thrashing in the autumn wind— first frost on the corn.

Two old fighting cocks, circling in the parched red dust— thunder in the palms.

Wild waves on the glass, Fame is smoke upon the gale, Truth remains unmoved.