Leaves come down.
The sun-dappled path
Seems darker now.
The west wind roars
In the upper boughs,
Chipmunks scurry—
With days shorter now.
I turn at the creek
And head for home;
A rabbit scampers
At the warning of crows.
Soon the ground will be frosted
With early snow,
And tracks of a hare
Will cross my own.
But all other life
Will stay in their lairs,
And only woodsmen
Will know they’re there.
And you and I
Will sit by the fire
Nestled with our animals
From winter’s ire;
Safe from the wind
Down the chimney stone,
In the cozy warmth...
A den of our own.