The crunch of gravel on a 1970 Ford truck tire,
the slam of old green-red rusty doors.
Rob and I leave the oxidized
(it still moves, a classic, he says)
by the final buzzing of mosquito wings
and the scritch-scritch of a lonely branch
as it scratches the carriage house glass.
The fury of crackle dry oak leaves under our booted feet.
cool and delicious
delights in spreading her colorful palette
(I hate fall, it’s death, he says)
and the wind shhes her soft lament through the
white birch leaves
still clinging to the sky.