October, Coming and Going

The winds storm

the high crowns of oak and elm,

rile my pair of squat dogwood

until they are three-quarters bare,

and fan the flaring bird song

whose source remains miraculously hidden

even in this fall-frayed garden.

All afternoon, I camp here

in this little light room,

windows wide open at either end.

I watch the steady migration, west to east

along the polished floor:

dust, tumbleweeds of dog fur,

contorted shadows and

the diaspora of words

pursuing the shelter of a poem.

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