Holding against the water's trickery.
The golds and reds are still a match for green,
And the pinecone scent portends a beckoning.
Sage has intertwined with gray-limbed brush lines.
The squirrels have turned a deeper bronze.
The ice plants are thick, with their first purples
Hidden inside. Clouds glower in puddles.
Even the fallow flax field has now been
Infiltrated by a thin sheet of grass,
The tufts turn the ochre up to blue hues.
Leaves push through black beanpod clusters.
The nests are resting on the bare branch crooks
And a few lone hawks patrol the stillness.
The afternoon sun hits places it hasn't
In months, so long it has been forgotten.
Rims of green around the stream, already
The slow death of humus gels in moist soil,
Overgrown grass, mushrooms, ferns!
