A splash of scattering wind wags the seed heavy heads of summer grown grasses

and sends tree tops sweeping short slow arcs against the cloud dashing sky.

The old ash I lean on breathes easily with the slow dozing rhythm

of this waiting and watching, of this September woods.

It’s smooth steady swaying tells me sweet stories,

whispers secret histories of Autumn’s approach.

Soon the browning leaves will be leaving

while the deep digging roots

keep this restless old trunk

from just wandering off

to leave only the crow

and only the wonder -

where went the wintering woods?