as cricket-throb in auras hugs the grove.
The hissing stream’s the same as leaves above
while crows and wigeons tell the woods to hush.
September’s fresh cathedrals of the sun
glow on goldenrod and ripe crabapples.
The first dead leaves are honey lacquer dappled
and new white flowers run where there were none.
The Bristow's now familiar as a friend,
still alien, but touching who I am.
The water darter skirts across the pond
just like a spider drawing on a hem.
Fuzzed cattails geese still scavenge silhouette
the pastel incandescence - this - sunset.
