Man of autumn, cold wind,
blow down the trees’ leaves.
Fire on the ground. The sky
perfect water, frost-cold,
rippled only by flocks
of black birds flying, gone.
Their brightness can blind
an uncareful watcher, work him
in a froth of hands, not-wings
that ache with the loss of flight.
A tear is flung faithfully
to the ocean of air, slipping in
slowly, is as gone as the birds.