Flying as a bird does over the heart
of the valley at dusk's beautiful panorama,.
I see the tops of trees and fall's departure.
One season begins and the other fades away.
Atop the ravine is a view of the sun's last hue.
It is a golden reflection fading to gray.
The wind blows winters burden from the yew.
Tiny shards of crystalline ice are suspended.
The rock from the peak's steep face
shuns the snow from its slippery granite.
At the top of the mount's grandiose grace
lays a hat of fluffy white wool..
As the wind howls its sorrowful tune,
I hear the hard crack of the trees many fingers.
The chill imparted from the blow stings hard.
I now know it is time to depart as coldness lingers.
I close the door and push it tight
to keep the heat from escaping.
The coldness has a warm hue in the night
of fall's discontent and winter's shaping.