Down in the valley lies the river. Old phoebe nest in the clothespin bag.
Sun sez shouldn't we have autumness now, here she comes
snarking through the deadlimbs, looking for orange leaves. Acorns fall a quarter mile to bang like gunshots on the stacked sheet metal waiting patiently for its journey, under dead leaves and branches, sinking into moss and hummus and tiny toads hop. Cook doglerettes bark. Baneberry taller than I across the road. Moon and window make a painting -- Wyeth, Andy's, ghost slips silently, behind the pines back into the shadows, smiling to himself.
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