It's a pretty day on the hill ...

The leaves left are so very still

There are still a few clinging

But there are no birds singing



They've all now migrated south

Without cover ... a dry mouth

For not only have leaves gone

But also the worms are done



For now they are underground ...

In the warmth of earth, browned

Colored just that way by a sunny veil

Half-rising over the hill, but never stale 



- Tristram



(c) Christopher W. Thomas

2:22pm Monday, Nov. 23rd, 1998