First Day of Fall

We sit in the sand on the ridge,

Sand right in our socks.

Sandhill cranes clatter overhead,

Three, circling, seeking the marsh.

Last season's bracken is silver on the sand,

This autumn's bronze, some yet gold;

Lichens and mosses, green patches,

With sour sorrel on the sterile sand.

Pine cones, silvered by the weather,

Lie on the sand for years,

Yielding slowly to the sour silicon,

Pretty in their pale way.

We wait for the deer-- they dance

Daily with the turkeys.

Entangled tracks prove the pavane,

Sand scattered by the polka.

We wait in vain, the deer

Pass through at dusk or dawn

Or a pre-prandial procession,

Their schedules, not ours.

Flickers flash by, present in the pines

With squirrel. Always here,

They punctuate the procession of the deer

With peasant comfort and panache.

Elizabeth M. Rosenow