A chain saw rips the morning jagged and raw
as the smell of tannin released from hidden oaken boles,
their rings of years displayed wanton to the sun’s brilliant gaze.
Playful breezes toss confetti leaves
earthly brown ,
and the brazen blue sky sports scarves of daring summer whites.
A cardinal lifts a desperate song as if there may yet be time,
a chance for one more nesting
on this too-warm, too-bright November day.
All of nature waits, knowing
that this cannot, will not last but still the bees
hum among the rotting drops
beneath the apple tree,
and burrow into the sweetness of decayed flesh.