Summer Leaves

Early Autumn. Lazy Sunday morning. Coffee cooling. Reading poetry, writing pooretry. Viewing artworks, editing photographs. Eggs and crumbcake, long since consumed. Forgot by mind, by mouth though not by belly. Hawks foreground the white puffery in the North sky, circling. Perhaps challenged by a corvid. Something black seems to dislike its circling. It’s presence. It’s self. The birch showers in newly not-green and softly serrated leafery. Dropping into cappuccino. Into coffee. Onto keyboard and camera. Into hair. Upon the unused chair. There, beside us. A carpet to inspire the sole of the barefeet we eat in. We ate in. The rustle seems to murmur something about the season. The ages. The world. The hawks cry out. Continually. Distant. They could be anywhere. They are just there far over there but could be anywhere. To place the call of a hawk is no small thing. To resolve them in the bluevast no easier, true. The leaves, seem to tire of the sky and fall, seemingly mostly, on her. She leaves them where they be. A forest come home to its Hera.