I saw the sun sparkle between the leaves
just before the outpouring of red and gold,
that moment of flux when everything is not new.
A bird flock undulated in our view.
A tarnished framework bridge sat to cross over
the creek, a connection between us and there:
A rusty reminder of the history of travels.
How many have driven this dirt road before?
Who else remarked upon the aging of the beams, has seen the streaming
brown water beneath.
The near-autumn sun advanced
upon the field.
An apple orchard in neglect to the left.
Weeds stood in contrast with the trees,
yet, apples continued to ripen and drop throughout the field,
leaving a sustaining memory.
The bird flock returned to a billow and thrum
and I drove on, following a ebbing sun.