The weight of summer is off the world and everything follows gravity—
winds swoop from the Arctic, snowfall spreads off the ridge
and deer retreat from their alpine meadows.
Cottonwood leaves trickle down and curl into the ground
where voles dig mazes and weasels follow,
slaying them for their velvety pelts to line their burrows in winter.
Elk come off the mountains in the middle of the night to herd around the pond
splashing, fluting, groaning under the weight of gravity.
The songs we sing of fall are filled with dread and sadness;
Fox knows the vertigo, the wailing wind, the smoke out of nowhere.
She also knows this lull and fallow time is just a cradle rocking into another season
like the solitaire’s one note whistled out against the cold morning,
a note that falls and fades in the waning autumn light.