Crisp, frost touched leaves,
Whirled into heaps by icy cold winds
in a dance from tree, bole to bole,
a mad interpretation of a ﬂamenco.
Blackbirds, ever on the lookout,
dive, dance, and hunt
Throwing debris hither and yon,
seeking insects and grubs
The Wind picks up the leaves again,
ﬂinging them from bush to bush,
where they pile even higher
clasped by the lower branches.
Squirrels caught out by the early frost,
scrabble in desperate haste
for nuts or acorns,
buried in balmier days.
Night falls, the wind eases,
the full moon silvers branch and leaf.
all is still, but for a fox
like a shadow ﬂitting through the woods.
By Patricia Jerome