Autumn creeps toward us this year.  The white birch
turns from  green to yellow and goldens into November.
I watch the bright leaves shout to me through the front window,
and everyday for two weeks I think how I will write about it.

Now the wind comes, and well over half of the leaves
cover the ground in a splendid circular swath of color.
The wind has taken the rest:  oak, maple, buckeye, plum.
I see straight through all the branches into the sky.