In late September, the grass still grows

     where I live

I cut dogtooth lines with the mower and watch

     the crickets run in silence

To me, they look like voles to a fox

     in the deep of winter, running beneath the snow

The autumn air is not crisp like I want it to be

but it isn’t heavy with summer prescience, either

It’s a cross between good memories and bad ones—

     a precipice of death, the last of rebirth

     Dim late afternoon light not yet golden,

     ice cream just beginning to drip

Goldenrod dust tickles my nose as I watch the birds

     dance in a birdbath filled by the first frigid rain

The yard is pockmarked with rabbit warrens—

     ankle turners, spring’s leftovers;

     walking around them is like being in a minefield

     of insignificant dangers

But the insignificance is lost when the bomb is tripped—

everything could explode in an instant, it seems

     Everything is waiting

But it doesn’t; I stow the mower away

and the sun sets with the turn of a grinding gear

It dips below the horizon before dinner is done

     how long has the sun been setting this early?

and twilight stains the yellowing crowns

     of the red maples across the street

     and the world is plunged

          into change

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