Six Lists in November
by Dana Wilde
the wind riffling dead grass
waves in the blue water
brown leaves hanging from bushes
the last exhalation of life, this time.
the wind bruises my nose
the water beats a sailboat toward the beach
oak leaves run like little kids in droves
bright red berries falling off bare branches:
it turns & takes its last look at the cottage.
we used to hunt in these woods.
we stepped on brittle twigs,
we brushed through pine needles,
we saw squirrels with their mouths full of acorns.
we teetered on the edge of winter with the bare poplars.
the cold clear air shows up the northern cross
pindrifts in the sky, a bright one, Vega
half the moon dumping light into the sea
Orion’s belt & another bright one, Sirius:
the late illumination of the sky this time.
thirteen geese in a chevron
a gang of seagulls
a chickadee among some naked branches
four crows circling over a grove of pines
the last southern sunlight stuns their wings.
a black & red wool jacket
heavy socks and gloves
a sweater in the shade, a shirt for sunlight
hats & freezing ears:
turn, turn, turn, change or fade, adjust or die; adjust.