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
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
With squirrel. Always here,
They punctuate the procession of the
With peasant comfort and panache.
Elizabeth M. Rosenow