At the Year's Elbow
September smells in the air
like school,
like the first awareness
of freedom's limits,
of the inevitable
snow.
Still green leaves
elegant with lacy
bug eaten holes,
rustle in the
still warm sun.
A bug runs up your arm
and changes directions
at September,
at your elbow,
the year's elbow.
A slight body language of wind,
a gesture of paling light says
Yes,
you are here
at the year's elbow.
In the morning,
the children
will go back to school.
In the evening,
the light will move away
with satchels
of flowers.
At Cape
May
At the bird sanctuary
in mid-September, a million
silver
tree swallows
wallow and swoop in the air,
taking great swallows of
air,
folding up on the tall
stalks
of marsh weeds
like shining Christmas
ornaments.
As one,
they flash like a flag
of silver and slate blue
against the turbulent blue
sky,
unfurling south.
October
in Emmitsburg
Sun
backlights the gold trees.
Suddenly
they jump up,
out
of the dark
at
the end of daylight savings time.
Moon
rides the sky,
hovers
over the mountain.
It’s
inner trickery
to
love the fall.
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