It’s Autumn

fall. The nuts patter down.

Beechnuts, oak seeds, dark pecans

tree vagrants tossed to the ground

in their hard garments.Don't go in there

into the blurred orange wood–

it's loaded up with furious elderly people men

sneaking around in disguise gear

imagining nobody can see them.Some of them aren't even old,

they simply have joint brows,

or on the other hand else they're tanked,

be that as it may, something must endure

for their hard feelings, their dark distresses:

the more exploded tissue, the better.They'll take shots at any indication of development

your canine, your feline, you.

They'll state you were a fox or skunk,

or then again duck, or fowl. Possibly a deer.They aren't trackers, these men.

They have none of the tolerance of trackers,

none of the regret.

They're sure they claim everything.

A tracker knows he borrows.I recollect the extended periods of time

hunching in the high bog grasses–

the low sky vacant, the water quiet,

the quieted shades of far off trees–

sitting tight for the surge of wings,

half-trusting nothing would occur.