I have been alone for days
dusk and dawn breathing in the distance
while the silence envelops
like an approaching front.
But don’t get me wrong, the weather is fine
even as the coyotes call from the ridge line
and veils of moisture drift in to the trees.
These days, it is I who am the sentinel
turning the light toward the movement
in the underbrush, dispersing the dark.
In the treetops, a wild morning
is taking place
Wind tatters the aging summer leaves
sun glistens on the cold
shoulders of the oaks.
Night is dispelled, thoroughly.
We in the clearing below
in the deep well of the still green
where the stones are cold to the touch,
we are already cloaked in another season,
waiting for the canopy to fall
for the dew to turn to frost,
our breath to cloud.