-This poem reflects on traveling beneath trees at the height of autumn color, where falling leaves, harvested fields, and one leaf carried on the windshield make the familiar road briefly part of the season’s descent.
The road runs under yellow trees,
their branches joined above the lane,
and every passing breath of wind
sends small gold currents through the air.
The ditches fill with maple leaves,
the fence posts rise from drifts of light,
while tires whisper through the bends
and lift a wake that follows home.
Beyond the trunks, the fields lie bare,
their furrows dark from morning rain;
a hawk turns once above the hill,
then disappears behind the ridge.
By dusk, the road has lost its gold,
the branches darken overhead;
one yellow leaf clings to the glass
and travels with us through the turn.