Cold wind

Man of autumn, cold wind,blow down the trees’ leaves.Fire on the ground. The skyperfect water, frost-cold,rippled only by flocksof black birds flying, gone.Their brightness can blindan uncareful watcher, work himin a froth of hands, not-wingsthat ache with the loss of flight.A tear is flung faithfullyto the ocean of air, slipping inslowly, is as gone as the birds.