Late September, Here
Early mist burns from the lake. The chipmunk
scitters along a lichen-spotted fallen locust,
from cool shade into sun, from sun
through bands of shade.
Small things, yes,
but there is no grief in them.
The pulse of the season finds itself in my body.
I am a vein, a nerve ---
I am different
when a yellow leaf breaks from its twig
to glint down the air,
and different again
when a red leaf falls.