a ghost-eyed dog
trots across a field
lately crew-cut of its corn
brown stubble
and rich clay exposed

plump gray clouds
hoist their heavy sails
there's a southwest wind,
the fishing might be good
barometer's right

an empty wicker rocker
moves in time with the breeze
on the new cedar porch
finches crowd the feeders
in the maple trees

naked cottonwoods host
a pair of red-tailed hawks
it's not yet thanksgiving
we've had a little frost on the pumpkin
we are deep down in the fall
we hunker down with
strong, hot coffee
look out over our steaming cups,
anticipate the winter to come
and hope for the best

November