A late afternoon in September,
doors and windows open,
and shadows all sideways.
The way I love to look at.
Pine needles are falling like tinydaggers
doubled and sharing the middle.
Monstrous, all these heaving groans.
See,
the trees have only each other to lean on,
and they are dreadful at the top.
They frame a left-over obtuse blue;
milky and powdered
with an orange grey wickedness.
I could feel it coming fast and close.
Impressed, I waited and listened, waited for its arrival.
That gurgle of atmosphere, it's inexorable digestion,
and everything that comes around sometime.
Not that I told you so. Or anything.
So distracted, I rested,
and the pines calmed a bit, unsated.
