Fading Larches

Now of all the bloom that loved the meadow,
only the nettles are left to shine,

their purple stare
bedded in nails, their neighbors

chaff for the wind,
dirt on the fur of the world,

their thrusts of thistledown
quilting nearly everything

nearby a blur
of silver-gray.

And the nights chill, thicken, open
giant arms.

And the grandparents sink deeper
into the spinning center

of what is done, what is gone.
And December

wheels forward, alert and brisk,
unfolding a small pale sky

in which the solstice
hovers like a hawk.


November Afternoon, by Sandra Gilbert


When I went into the field looking for a photo, there was the buck from the other day standing along the edge of the field. Walking a bit further, I turned and realized there was a second buck standing in the driveway. It ducked into the woods and I started into the field. That's when I noticed the third buck along the edge of the marsh. Only the second one was by himself,  the other two were accompanied by nearby does. And here I thought they were all staring at me!