Summer is becoming autumn.
Even before the equinox, the days have cooled
and become bright and breezy…
The ground is littered with acorns.
The squirrels are busy.
I see a bronzed praying mantis.
The first leaves, scouts for the coming armies,
slant down to land on the green of grass.
There is one red as a cardinal.
A new moon climbs up late behind a bank of oaks to the east.
The great blue heron is so still that it seems
a part of the half submerged branch on which it stands.
The monarchs have passed through.
My white beard prophesies snow and springs I will not see.
What has changed through my seasons?
Not so very much – same quality of attention, same quality
of intention, same quality of invention
Yet I’ve been always in flux.
I dance away from myself without malice