There are days when it doesn’t rain.
As the moon swells, the clouds slowly part.
On the ripest moment of the moon’s harvest,
The air is clear-
The clouds hide and hold the last of the warmth,
And once the cold arrives, it stays.
It hides in the ground, in frostwork lattices,
In half-frozen creeks and fully frozen ponds.
And because out in the mountains, the forests,
As one season advances, the other must retreat,
So too do the birds, the animals,
Those things that move and those that don’t.
The turning of the leaves of the cottonwood
-Is always prelude to the main act,
And when the morning rises to gold
And not green-
Best to taste the air and gather warmth,
Bow to the sharp fingers of winter slowly reaching
For the fleeing sun.
Dramatic and fast change is a certainty when living in the North.