The park is like an old-age home for trees—

some are a hundred years old, maybe more.

They’re bony like the old; crepuscular

along the twilight verticals of sight.

Autumn has come a little late this year;

the old don’t want to dry out quite so fast.

This maple’s leaves have fallen all at once,

and same side up: a circle of pure red.

Last month, each squirrel had something in its mouth;

they ran like crazy to escape my car.

This month, they’re nowhere to be found.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 33 Number 3, on page 23
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