Autumn comes on a big wind.
Trees grow bare. Streets and
walkways rustle orange-yellow-
red. I pull out the winter parka

and brush dust from the boots.
Sparrows gorge at the feeder,
rounding out their feathered
bellies. Nuthatches stop by

on their way somewhere else.
There is that bitter winter taste
in every gust; rime on the grass
in the mornings. Crows surf

invisible waves; one folds
its wings tight to its body,
a black arrow speeding across
the visible waves of the river.

Already, one surge of grosbeaks
has come and gone, but the ash
tree still bows down with berries.
I wake to wind rattling windows; 

make a shopping list of soups,
stews and Halloween candy
for the monsters who will probably
not appear at my out-of-the-way

door. A friend grieves a broken
love and I grieve with her, all of us
broken somewhere, sometime, as autumn
gives way to the next, dark, season.