Approaching Winter
Leaves plunge
to orange. Nights drop
early. Along the inlet
scant birds dot the amber marsh.
Brittle stalks kneel on frayed knees.
There is a hunting among left-over life.
We peer outward
through this falling time;
strain to remember green;
pretend clever colors
do not portend the freeze.
Left behind, crouched
beneath thin lowering light,
we cringe like winter leaves.
Cutting gusts may curl
us closed, sealing us
to finished things.
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