I've always loved the fall. There's a poignant, almost sad beauty in the dying foliage, the geese flying in arrows overhead, and the sound of the insects' last heroic hurrah in the weedy grass and woods.
I like to take a walk after supper and the other evening, I started writing this little poem as I walked. (As I'm typing this, I hear a hawk calling outside.)
September at Dusk
I pause in my walk
To look for the hawk
That whistles so wistful and high
To study the trees
The flush of their leaves
And gawk at the glowing red sky
Now that autumn's begun
The slant of the sun
Lies low like a long crimson blush
And the maples look tired
Against twilight's fire
Limbs torched and bloodied by dusk
When leaves whisper and sigh
Is that how trees cry?
Do they mourn because summer has passed?
And as shadows grow long
Are they sad summer's gone
Like a fugitive, vanished too fast?
Do trees wish that summer could last?
Be Well and Good Luck,