shadow

A season turns

To walk out in the morning

is a fine thing:

gold on the cosmos,

and the sun's quiver on rows

of tall tasseled corn

left for October.

The stalks sing,

brushed by a breeze

that moves the dry

grass into chorus;

the rusting hinge

of the garden gate

creaks a cricket song,

and leaves turn red

on a lean orchard tree

as you reach

for summer's last plum.

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