Posted by: atowhee | October 11, 2016


October 10

Now constantly there is the sound,
quieter than rain,
of the leaves falling.

Under their loosening bright
gold, the sycamore limbs
bleach whiter.

Now the only flowers
are beeweed and aster, spray
of their white and lavender
over the brown leaves.

The calling of a crow sounds
Loud β€” landmark β€” now
that the life of summer falls
silent, and the nights grow.



  1. Sweet . I highlighted my favorite li nes.

    Just got back from Isenberg / Woodbridge and the greater sandhill cranes. Had not seen the fly in for 20 years. A primeval sound like no other. Awesome. So sad that we have so paved the valley over (and the Himalayan grape is smothering to death the last of the isolated patches of the two separate oak woodlands where I camped) that these amazing beings have to rely upon wisdom-less humans to flood one field so they can spend the night without being attacked by predators and farmers to leave crop stubble, probably with pesticides, for sustenance . It has come to this in so many arenas where the war on nature is raging. I get so overwhelmed that the rage no longer comes.

    I forgot to ask them whe re the lesser cranes hang out. Do tell.

    ALSO, this is your last chance to tell me you are leading a trip to Malheur in spring. If not, Kathy at Northwest Nature suggested I h ire Duncan who works at the field station to take me around.

    Thank you for the lovely poetry, Harry. Enjoy the rain that is fast approaching.

    marie annette

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