An arrow of geese pierces westward.

A wave of sound smashes the wall of Autumn's quiet.

Behind the clamor, silence explodes again,

a translucent steel-grey tumult strafes

the leaves off all the trees,

burnt-orange tears falling

on the earth's bare square feet.

The inevitable West, that Queen's 

garrulous guillotine!

What silence severs the rope held fast,

and unleashes that quick metal? 

An unseen bony hand throws Winter's

black blanket over the basket. Mushrooms

poke their heads out of that shroud.

We sleep facing East.