-This poem reflects on the first walnuts falling in early autumn, when their sudden knocks, bruised green husks, and the work of gathering squirrels make the changing season heard as clearly as it is seen.
The walnut leaves have paled to gold,
their narrow shadows cross the yard,
while high among the thinning boughs
green husks grow heavy after rain.
At noon, one strikes the metal roof,
then rolls along the sloping edge;
another drops beside the fence
and disappears in matted grass.
The squirrels arrive before the sun,
their paws stained dark from broken husks,
they turn the fallen walnuts round,
then carry one beneath the hedge.
By dusk, the air smells sharp and green,
the leaves collect around the shed,
and from the branches near the gate,
one walnut hits the empty pail.