The birds and I are bereft of their brethren.
Eagles have left their nest along the Scioto behind.
Egrets and herons have left their stance in the ponds
to return to a hidden pre-historic time.
The ponds nearby are no longer over-run by geese on the fly.
Hummingbirds no longer hover and pass by.
Too quiet and too tame is the garden scene;
no more fights over the bird bath.
No more winners to take wet bows.
Choruses no longer compete.
All is quiet except for the short, solemn cheep
of a brown sparrow looking for lost insects in the heap
of dropping leaves and wilting flower heads
weighed down by darkening-swelling seeds,
and cold nights, and morning fogs.
Winter’s notes hang briefly in the autumn air
drowning out bird song, as bees and insects weep.
The sun rises too low, for too short the hours needed
to warm the squirrels’ bowers and keep them safe.
Even faithful house wrens have moved on
taking with them a suitcase of song.
I remain behind, unable to follow along.
Night no longer allows the body to count
breaths in and breaths out, unable to time
the body’s rise and fall.
Quickened change distorts all
the moments of our lives.
We no longer know where we come from,
nor where we go.
Autumn is all upheaval
so much so
that we yearn for the heavy weight
of winter’s blanket of snow
to comfort us and control our breath,
to hold us safe, to hold us tight,
to quietly get us through the darkest night.
And so, I rise at first light
to gain as much insight
as shorter days allow.
I take up my pen and write
the silent rhythm of Autumn’s song.
I sing with all my quiet might.
Come, and sing along.
annarino writes 