The Late Fall
This is the late fall now.
Where skies are empty
and forests quiet.
The birds have migrated in borderless caravans,
and the ground reeks of brown leaves
This is the ugly rump of a season.
Where the chill in the air feels violent
and truth is laid as bare as trees.
Really, its more winter than anything else.
This is the time for long pauses,
contemplative sylvan marches,
and the silent things that steels one against the cold and dark to come.