Autumnal

The fruits remaining on the tree
are numbered now, becoming smaller,
harder, and less plump;

the afternoon is hot,
but already carries undertones
of approaching winter—

And we hear
across pitched roofs
the toothed quarreling

of creatures,
their cries that tear
through the fabric of night.

In the shed, once,
bringing boxes and garden things
to store: six pairs of eyes

twitched in the dusk
of the interior and made us shut
the open door

quickly back upon itself.
And at the river’s edge,
the water sighs

for tufted bodies hovering
above the current, tendering notice
of their departure across the sky.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.