"An Autumnal Sunset On the Russian River" by William Keith, 1878
The trees turn, suddenly,
as dawn rolls up what night unwound--
their slender necks
like tundra swans in shallow ponds.
There is no comforting chill
in the gray air,
only a screed of birds
scrawled on a bare sky.
Fog arrives in the narrow valley,
gray wings cupped like snow geese
landing between deserted stars
in morning's porcelain light.
A trout waves in a shadow
across smooth stone,
and while I watch, a bear--sleek and black--
crosses the river and fades off winterward.
No comments:
Post a Comment