The red-winged blackbirds are gone now,
having flown like the leaves from the trees
who stand bare behind the low blue creek,
raising their white limbs to the sky
as if in celebration of their freedom.
Except for the rustling of the breeze
through the bright oaks and the occasional
call of a crow, silence reigns, a portent
of the coming winter’s quiet. But before
the earth settles into dream, she dances
one more time, in jeweled colors lifted high,
like promises of beauty to come,
as she whirls toward winter,
toward another distant spring.