The light revolves in its own whimsy
Largo through branches and falling leaves:
the hard blues now of shuffle and dip,
plunked banjo, fiddle wheeze and guitar.

All through the pale October dusk I have called out,
Called out but made no sound. The hills, tucked
in red blankets of sun, are my voice for this weather,
my round cousins. When I can’t sing, they lull the sky

and improvise limpid tunes for the barns.
My voice makes only faint and courtly gestures
toward the rim of light, off, there, another
scene I named badly, another collapse of words.

Even the dogs won’t go out in this weather.
Tonight is not a night for walking but for sitting
still on the soft warm rugs of winter coming,
hard blues, and the laying in.