The days are winding down,
Fox wakes out of fitful dreams to the honking of geese
beating their wavering line of sadness to the south.
In the shrinking hours that pass with lost light
creatures hoard what they can;
Fox rides a see-saw of surfeit and hunger
lapping warm blood from mice in the forest
or finding nothing in rusting meadows.
The afternoon winds are summer’s unruly spirits
whipped away through the equinoctial seam by a wastrel of dust devils—
all that’s left are barren branches
and nights that carry the fluted longings of elk over the valley.
A winter scent touches the air,
no sounds fill a sultry forest
no fly’s buzz or raven’s cry—
trout finning in their shrinking pools elude the currents and dive deep
knowing their world will turn to ice
and hold them in a winter’s sleep.