The seasons cringe; they shift and out creaks leaves’ light music.
It’s cowardly to bemoan the chills, the change, the late evening-into-night music.
Eager autumn breeze renders summer trees naked and shivering,
stark in their nude surrender, nary an effort hangs on to compose fight music.
A bird-tree relation once symbiotic and passionate in its coupling,
now merely trembles, lonely in the wake of the beating-wing flight music.
Note the merging of color: a splattered hue on leaves as a wild painting.
While the frigid dance of air-whispers sing the woeful dirge on-site music.
I bear witness to pay seasonal tribute to Nature’s measured death twirling,
as without death, there cannot exist life; therefore, this pained hum is the right music.