In an October field,
midges dancing backlit
in the low corridors of the sun,
crows in the thinning woods,
claiming the day as their own,
we two deep in the season
of goldenrod and asters,
you with your lemon water,
me with my crooked stick,
better to listen than to talk
at this age, complicit in silence,
rapt in an evening state of mind.
