Summer's End

Already the air carries the scent of dryness and decay. The woods are heady with the must of wild grapes, fragrant apples ripe for picking. Here and there leafy maples ignite like matches. In a scoured blue sky the red-tailed hawk traces the shadow of his circles over exhausted fields below. The garden’s generosity is spent. Only leeks and kale remain to brave winter’s cold and snow, like flowers on a grave.