Bearded wheat
gleams gold on this September evening;
the air sacheted with apple orchards
and potpourri of summer’s spent roses…
The fruit has ripened past the point of using
except by bees and hungry deer, all pleased
to join the celebration. Ripples in the uncut grass
speak of mice or chipmunks arriving for the feast.
Maples change to the tune of birds
with no intention of migration,
this field is a universe
that knows nothing but abundance.
