Rhythm

Rhythm

A dense mantle of dew, tingle of frost
keeps the sun out east a little longer.
He's enticed, finally, by soft whispers
of gossamer threads, pools of cool camphor

in dips and hollows. They dissolve, before
his slanting rays, so he doesn't linger,
speeds on to chase the skirt of the moon west.
She shines bright, tugs the sea like loose fabric.

Ash key clusters hang from silvery stems.
Bat-like, they chitter in the north-blown breeze.
Horse chestnut fruits split and drop polished nuts,
the thuds echoing like distant gunfire.

Birds - free agents, unfettered by day jobs -
scan the winter schedules, book their flights south.
Honking toy horns, a squadron of wild geese
in low formation, skim a choppy lake.

Compass wide, the landscape around me lies
in rippled shadows, pre-empting winter.
Gently, Nature seems to slow her rhythm
and slumbering, she rests her beating heart.