The sourwoods had begun loosening
their red signatures into the yard
each leaf a small surrender
the wind knew how to carry
For weeks I had lived by glowing windows
names flickering across midnight screens
voices from distant cities
crossing the dark like migrating geese
A warmth settled into the body afterward
the kind that comes
when the climb is over for now
and campfires appear along the ridge
The mornings cooled at last
I walked slower through the neighborhood
hands deep in my sleeves
breathing woodsmoke and thawed rain
Somewhere beyond the season’s turning
ballots drifted through invisible rooms
the trees releasing what they could
into the hands of weather
I had already heard
other wings in the distance
answering back