Every year, trees redeem their leaves,

          the sky slung to our neighbor’s stones.

 

          Finches are bewildered by wind, reiterating

each feathered plummet.

Echinacea musk and rosemary

          alter the drifting smoke of piñon — autumn already

                    decomposing, each blade

          of cactus standing.

 

                    Winter’s measure:

                thin wires inked with articulate crows.

 

The ground is almost the horizon,

                pouring out its oscillations.

 

          A room of gray sweaters. Blueberries

up from the freezer.