In the ruminations
of these round faced trees
and the vague scent
of bruised primrose,
there is a hint of October,
of inevitable endings
and the souls` unfolding.
Here, the crows
are excitable.
Their dark vowels
fill the afternoon
with warnings,
as they swirl
charcoal lines
through persimmon air.
I watch a poplar seed
spin to infinity.
On the edge
of this moment,
between now
and the constant revelation
of what is to come,
a blackbird sings
among oak leaves
still blue with rain.
