The only news in the rustle of oak leaves
is the weather report: wind is light
and from the south. There are well-founded
rumors of autumn in the musty orange scent.
For a time, I close my eyes, let this
be the only news I need to know.
Somewhere in the distance, there’s
a train. A dog. An insistent crow.
Somewhere, decisions are being made
one small oval at a time.
Here, there are leaves. Low sun.
I give what is here all my attention,
let it fill in the small empty spaces in me,
this light chill. This slight wind.