Changing with the Land

Mindlessly looking at
dull khaki grass across
the valley below;
thinking about Thoreau,
reflections of changes in
me and the land.

Does it change;
do I change?

Khaki grasses earlier so
filled in lush green and
waltzing to summer in
breezes’ rhythms;
now November morn
standing rigid as oaks’ limbs and
brittle as old barns’ panes.

Water bubbling from a spring and
gargling into the creek
chilled even on
summer’s dog-days;
knowing without touch
water even colder in
November air’s nibbles.

Maybe things change;
maybe I change.

Light opening eastern
sky to the day, and
my contentment secure in
the azure above.

And then, things commence change;
I commence change.

A small line hints pink and
then reddens over
the ridge’s khaki grass;
line slowly stretched wider,
with the ease of a
paint-roller in
slow motion.

That real sunrise turning
the dulled grass into
a kaleidoscope of reds
Monet couldn’t match.

Morning kicks over a
five-gallon pail of red paint,
it swathing paths across
each of land’s contours.

My eyes opening as
the color spreads across
the ridge’s grass;
no creature living so
spectacular as this nature’s
outside-the-lines coloring.

Things changing more;
me changing more.

Twinkling in a
creek-bottom birch
not noticed before;
that reflecting from
the tree’s highest limbs started
spreading down the tree, a
whitened torch standing among
ever-darkened leafless tag alders.

A birch lighting from
top to bottom,
a beacon standing vigil with me
over nature’s creativity.

Light reaches the birch’s
lowest branches and
lights red firelight to
a bush below;
me a short gasp for
a new breath,
forgetting to breathe as
nature’s performance paints awe.

Day now reaching
into its fullness,
I slide down against
that favorite oak to
think more about this
scene and Thoreau.

This day
his is right and
his is wrong;
today things changing and
today me changing.