I am spinning toward four corners,
toward crab apple, black oak,
some brick homes and small campfires
of leaves at the curb.
A man I do not know
moves a rake over his yard.
He stops and waves -
his kids tugging an old wagon up the drive.
Cut wood. Sharp brick.
I love these families who hitch
rumpled husks of corn to their screens,
who let the sun work their clothes
while the flicker clacks in the oak.
It's good to see the pumpkins glower,
the squirrels filching apples
from the branches. So I wave back
with the next gear shift,
as these kids spill over the leaves
like a thousand nimble ponies.