Summer lapses into Fall, slow and meandering like
the creek, wandering, sweeping, just moving along. Around the bend, you can find the ruins of
a nook where they used to make Moonshine.
Across the road, over the way,
the neighbor gathers rusty trinkets; trucks without engines,
tractors, iron crags, twisted metal, things I can't make out,
oddest of lawn ornaments.
He lives alone in his makeshift palace, talks to no one from what I can
tell. A lonely lamp without a shade, a naked bulb, sits in the window as we go by.
The leaves fall from the trees, cluttering the ground, leaving the branches bare,
hungry fingers, reaching for the veiled sun. Winter sets in, mild and lazy.
People sit and chat in voices thick and slow,
like marmalade, for hours,
drive at their own pace, move at to their own beat, go at their own time.
They wave at us as we go by; we don't know their names, but it almost appears
that they are glad to see us.
In the twilight, we watch the grass carp float around, the frogs bellow their throaty tunes to the stars and the wide, silver cheeks of the moon.
It is getting cold, there may be a few snowflakes tonight. They will probably be gone by sunrise.