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October gallops in as stolid as a gray mare,
a blunt wind snorts furiously through autumnal trees.
Foliage rattles, but does not fall, it clings still
to green stems.

Appalachian backwoods have tough roots,
shod as they are into an earth salted
with a dark gritty ore.

Bears are foraging and reaping,
their black silky pelts clamber over gusting winds
to reach the furthest fruits
before first snows overburden stoic pines.

Today the sky is unharnessed
and racing at full tilt
It whips my raw lips like a wet mane,
it rears up to stamp down upon its own
animated onslaught.

I adjust my rucksack and reshoulder a shotgun
grin, eyes watering
caught under the stampeding gale,
buffeted now by its muscular flanks.

I need to bridle this striding wind,
to halter its headlong charge,
or better yet just surrender -
turn my back on it,

let it ride me 
as we leap down from the hilltops
whooping it up like cowboys.

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