Fall in the Osage Cuestas

a poem.

It was a damp, gray morning 
early in November, and it was too
late for the trees, as summer’s 
dry ministrations left them muted. 

A smattering of brown static along 
the hillsides. Lovely, though,
as fungi bloom on decay.
The ochre, rust, and honeyed leaves 
drop to the loam below.

At this rotation of the earth we lose ourselves.

Though maybe we 
              just return.
 
                                   -m.byrd-wright