Stacey Dye

A flock of Canada geese blusters past,
discordant honks echo through
the gray autumn morning.

I catch a glimpse of the lopsided vee
beyond the golden-rum and russet
leaves on the maples.

They have begun their migration
south as the thermometer struggles to top
forty. I wrap my sweater tighter,

dig my hands into my pockets. Smoke drifts
in spiral tubes from chimneys all over
the neighborhood with earthy aromas

of burnt oak and pine. Brisk breezes whip
leaf devils on the lawn, skip into the street
and dissolve down the way.

Aubergine and copper vibrate in contrast with
the ashen sky. The geese fade into the distance.
Winter is just over the horizon.