photo: patricia wellingham-jones
CLOSING
THE CABIN FOR THE WINTER
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Pine
shadows stripe the blacktop,
vine
maples spill gold on the road,
willows
dance orange tangos in the breeze
as
we drive to the lake in late October.
Our
voices bounce across the water like skipping stones.
A
flicker hammers his way up a trunk.
Jays
demand sandwich scraps
the
year is too old to provide.
On
the far shore a loon pulls down a rain cloud.
We
hear the slap of rising waves on the shore.
Lightning
slashes through steamy black wool
and
insects shrill their alien tongues.
Around
us the air explodes with sound.
The
storm breaks over our heads
like
soup bowls thrown at a wall and I
want
to cower with the dogs under the bed.
Next
morning with pipes drained, windows shuttered,
we
leave in the first sprinkles of snow.
The
mountain prepares itself for winter—
lake
black in the coming cold, birds silent.
~
previously published in Autumn Leaves
