Indian Summer

               I woke this morning to seven hawks
               circling outside my window on the second floor,
               swooping down into the woods
               and up again
               angling their wings to just float into the blue expanse.

The autumn day is warm and damp
expanding with the soft gold of the pear tree leaves.

Crows caw by the scarlet blueberry bushes
Six of them
And then leave.

                   The wind blows wild grey clouds over the mountaintop toward the cabin
                   Deepening the browns and burgundies of leaves flying across the yard.

Between, patches of brilliant sunlight sweep up the hill, setting fire to the orange sugar maples

A solitary goose flies overhead.

The tin on the old barn roof behind the house slams
And slams

And a storm roars in through the forest.