MID-NOVEMBER
and the wind is having its way with the trees,their leaves littering the ground with gold.
The cold air resonates with crows making
casual conversation, mocking remarks.
As the woods thin, the bones become visible,
and smoke from the chimneys braids hand over
hand, almost reaching the clouds. This is the pause
in the calendar, before the holidays’ razzle-dazzle
gives way to winter, the year’s interior. The sun
sinks in the west, a teabag in hot water; citrus
and cinnamon fill the room. Pull up a chair,
and sit by the fire. Night comes quickly now,
the click of a camera shutter. From the copse
on the edge of the meadow, a murmuration
of starlings, a river of birds, clamorous
cacophony, weaving and unweaving the air.
Barbara Crooker
