Poem: November 1

 Nov 1

I'm waiting for the sounds to diminish: the high above airplane, 

the far away leaf blower, the car on the road, the squirrels shuffling

 through the brown fallen oak leaves, so I can hear the Sandhill cranes 

overhead again. It's the first of them I've heard this season. 

Many trees have lost all their leaves. But most hold on.
Here's a leaf the color of fine leather; another the color of ancient wine.

A family riding bikes, taking in the fall as family

If you walk along the path into the forest a little further and 

round the bend -- What will you see? What might 

you hear?  What will be revealed?  A squirrel working a nut, 

some frogs? A lit up yellow treetop? The shush of water rippling 

in the creek?  A woodpecker above?