Fall

Rabbits and squirrels and robins
and white-throat sparrows
have invaded my yard like an army.
They all are hungry 

and are storing up fat for their journey
or a winter’s sleep. 

Trees and bushes are dropping their leaves
to adorn the grass 
with reds and yellows and browns. 
Trees don’t appear to be sad,
though it’s true, they’re silent, 
glad perhaps to be left to themselves.

These trees will be adorned by snow
unlike squirrels and rabbits
that are snugged away in their nests
with nothing as warm as a stove
or the need for more
than fur for insulation, tunnels and holes.

Only humans feel the need to be crude:
to track smooth snow
and engage in active entertainment;
who must have fun
while destroying the glory of silence:
winter’s proffered gift.

Now a black crow croaks.

Why is it that men must be noisy?
Disrupt what is naturally dumb,
destroy the sum
of winter’s intelligent reluctance:
the offered rest
that is this snowy season’s offered gift?

And there are some
who will experience an episode of drift:
won’t again return in the Spring,
won’t be among
the new blossoms, new leaves, returning birdsongs:
forever gone.