Indian summer gives way
To the first frost
As a quarter moon rises
Over the slumbering mountain.
From the trees beyond the creek
I hear the hooing
Of an owl
And
From somewhere nearer
The rounded peaks
Comes the yip-yip-yipping
Of a coyote.
I watch my breath,
Barely visible
Within the weak light
Leaking from behind
The curtained windows,
As it drifts away
Into the darkness
Beyond my nose,
And I pull my sweater
Closer about my body
In a vain attempt
To soothe the chill bumps
Rising from my skin;
But I am in no rush
To return
To the warmth indoors.
Instead,
I am content
To sit upon my porch swing
And breathe the smoke-scented air,
Reflecting upon my blessings
As Nature beds herself down
For the long winter ahead.