Now constantly there is the sound,

quieter than rain,

of the leaves falling.

Under their loosening bright

gold, the sycamore limbs

bleach whiter.

Now the only flowers

are beeweed and aster,

spray of their white and lavender

over the brown leaves.

The calling of a crow sounds

Loud — landmark — now

that the life of summer falls

silent, and the nights grow.

~Wendell Berry

may I linger in the in between spaces…

inquiry for today~ you, too, know the earth and sky…

wild ride home to the heart…

Trees are poems

that the earth writes upon the sky.

~Kahil Gibran