A Dying Year

A majority of trees are nearly ghostlike now;
cobweb traceries of branches and twigs,
gnarled together in nakedness, erupting from
a molten floor of leaves, gold and orange.

The once-thought-dead birch is ending a cycle;
yellow leaves break loose, drop and scatter;
trunks, like indian canoes, are propped against
a molten sky, leaded with thoughts of snow.

The small herd of deer are beginning to return,
timidly searching out the largess of humans,
as brittle forage dies out with the snap of cold
advancing through late months of a dying year.

Rabbits and miniature ground squirrels have
all but disappeared, while grays still attack
bird feeders, fiercely arguing primacy, against
a background symphony of migrating geese.

A hibernating, hunkering-down time arrives;
slowly for some, yet far too fast for others;
An expiration for a few others, paralleling the
cyclical end of one year, one life, one triumph.