Every September day
is finest —
drawing us into
the progress of goldenrod.

Here, they stand
with yellowest fingertips,
poised to mimic these
already wreathed in flame.

Migrant wings
pass through,
and the residents
flock together.

In the witching hour,
coyotes call
the dark hunt.
But I have lost my pack.

And so I join these
flocks of crows and black birds —
watching for
what comes from the north.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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