(Along SR 917)
whirling whirling brown;
flits across my windshield
and leaps over the roof;
flitting flitting brown to the ground;
dancing, then, dancing brown down the road,
resting, till swept up, away, astray (autumns prey)
by the next lonely car that comes this winding way.
And the westering sun glorifies a golden maple,
where rambling cows punctuate gentle green hills.
A field where corn still stands
glitters gold, spears and shields,
while sumacs tongues-of-fire shishkebobs
salute the splendors