The foliage has faded away, leaving the brown and black world
of trunks and stems under a gray sky. Suddenly some yellow late-bloomer
illuminates in fulsome gold the margin between orchard and woods--as quick, an
orange reply in the shrubs at the foot of the slope. The cold is coming
tomorrow: whatever you’ve got to say, say it now.
Sudden flame of rust
in gray woods. What’s that bird in
the apple? Towhee!
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