In the morning, the bell-and-buoy
voices of birds
to mark a sky channel.
And then, after lift
of silver fog,
a stillness.
In trees, in grass,
the green of growth
held in sere suspension.
This is September, when the river sheens and mirrors,
reflecting the
ripeness of journeys fulfilled,
in depths, in
shallows, beyond shadowed bend.
-Kevin Macneil Brown
