Sound and Light
November sun steps
past bare trees,
orange,
so orange.
A butternut
squash, overripe
cantaloupe.
round
as antelope rumps.
Finally, sun
as astral cherry,
red slip of a thing,
slides over the edge,
abandons
this dome of indigo.
Thin thread
of maroon
stitches the forest tight
to the horizon, keeps
trees from toppling.
All is still as new mud
packed by beaver hands,
still as the unmoved river.
Only a faint tinkling,
water over the dam,
promises tomorrow
will walk
out of this dark.
—Mary Linton
