A thin north wind whips sycamore leaves
down the empty, shadowed lane.
Dead leaves, dressed in fall,
skitter across cracked asphalt:
A sound like crackling fire:
A tumble of ochre, copper, brown.
It is October in Idaho.
Dry grass the color of summer wheat
skins the foothills
on the outskirts of town.
The pale stalks flatten, rise, and flatten again:
An ancient ritual.
A tang of onions, abrupt, crisp,
scent the afternoon air.
Laden trucks, full of harvest,
trundle across the Payette River
as the cold north wind ripples
the turquoise surface.
Copyright © 2011. Timothy Milhorn. All rights reserved.