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

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