The park is like an old-age home for trees—
some are a hundred years old, maybe more.
They’re bony like the old; crepuscular
along the twilight verticals of sight.
Autumn has come a little late this year;
the old don’t want to dry out quite so fast.
This maple’s leaves have fallen all at once,
and same side up: a circle of pure red.
Last month, each squirrel had something in its mouth;
they ran like crazy to escape my car.
This month, they’re nowhere to be found.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 33 Number 3, on page 23
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