Dating in fall

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)

truck, surrounded

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.

photo (13)


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