rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


The dogwoods had barely turned red when the cold and rainy week came, and then the wind stripped the branches of most of their leaves. They now lie strewn, giving the ground the ghost of that color for which Sunday afternoon's blue sky would have been the perfect backdrop. Passing cars have powdered those leaves which fell into the street, and the gray pavement now appears to wear a diaphanous veil of pink.

Elsewhere along the block the color has peaked and begun to fade, too, so much of it was scattered by the winds. But tonight the air is still, and the serene moon has settled among the pines. The trees' shadows have become November lace again. It will not last, nor will the mildness of this air. Soon the nights will be all bare trees and chill. December lurks, and can't be put off for long. Tonight I'll take an autumn walk, and store memories of it the way the woodpeckers are storing nuts. Then I'll have something to crack open by a warm fire a month or two hence. I suspect I'll need it.

Sunday Verse

Echoing Light

by W.S. Merwin

When I was beginning to read I imagined
that bridges had something to do with birds
and with what seemed to be cages but I knew
that they were not cages it must have been autumn
with the dusty light flashing from the streetcar wires
and those orange places on fire in the pictures
and now indeed it is autumn the clear
days not far from the sea with a small wind nosing
over dry grass that yesterday was green
the empty corn standing trembling and a down
of ghost flowers veiling the ignored fields
and everywhere the colors I cannot take
my eyes from all of them red even the wide streams
red it is the season of migrants
flying at night feeling the turning earth
beneath them and I woke in the city hearing
the call notes of the plover then again and
again before I slept and here far downriver
flocking together echoing close to the shore
the longest bridges have opened their slender wings


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