Monday, Wednesday

Seeing in flight along the lifting wind,
Like sudden birds peopling an empty sky,
Those last crisped leaves so long you had passed by —
Where dark they hung that had been fire behind
The pasture whose scant blossoms kept in mind
Our summer now grown gold for memory —
Did you remember as you saw them pass,
Flutter and sink, sully the silvered grass, 
That each forsaken stem bears, fast asleep,
An eager bud to tell the tale of spring?
Will you forget, hearing the darkness weep,
How each hour moves towards their awakening?


Message, by Dorothy M. Richardson


The wind and heavy rain of the last two days has brought down a lot of colorful leaves, including the ones from this tree just behind the house. And something's been at the rotten pumpkin my wife had perched on the old kayak buried in grass. Maybe it was that big fat raccoon clambering around the bird feeder last night