A Hint of Frost
Sunflowers raise round faces to the sky.
The last red tomatoes
cling stubbornly to scraggly vines.
Marigolds tangle with zinnias, coneflowers,
fall blossoms bright in the slanting light.
On the feeder, a woodpecker pauses,
delicately plucks a single thistle seed.
He watches me watch him.
The day holds its breath. No clouds,
no contrail mars bright blue.
Even the bees are still.
A lone squirrel rustles through the hemlocks.
He chatters, chides me,
cheeks stuffed with chestnuts.
He shakes his head.
He knows I am unprepared.