Every Falling Leaf
I worry about the birds — these birds,
singing here in this tree, whose names
I do not know, who best, I think, be
heading south — and all the children
of all the friends I have known and forgotten,
in cars on dark, curvy roads. Where
could they be going on a night like this?
The sky is too wide, the forest too deep
to fret for every falling leaf. For this,
men invent gods, multitudes of them.
They watch over fish and fowl,
beast and man who creates them
in the image to which he aspires —
all knowing and all seeing.
I see the skunk — that one
dashing across the big curve
between South Range and Trimountain —
sleek, beautiful, head down, tail flying,
a black and white banner of night.
Take care, fellow traveler, you and I
have little ones waiting at home.