Leaves sift, brown curls from the elms, the occasional fan
of sycamore. Sugar maples burnish into monarchs channeling
toward the south. Boneset and snake root gone to furze bend
over fences below swallows ringing the power lines with their tiny feet.
One pole down the hawk sits atop and stares into the north fields,
deigning not to notice their endless chatter, awkward takeoffs
and landings from rippling wires. The late yellow suphur at the roses
would have us think otherwise, but there has been a subtle shift,
earth settling into what is drawing down the sap, opening new
burrows beneath the voles, sending shaggy cinnamon caterpillars scurrying
across the two-lane. One morning, frost will seal grassblades and ice will rim
the birdbath, but for today in the false heat of this November afternoon,
it is enough to pretend grass is newly greened and fields will follow
and that we’re on the other side of winter.
By Pat Anthony
To read more of Pat Anthony’s poems please visit middlecreekcurrents.
Photo by Maryna Zadiranchuk