Late Fall
Against the green, a flash of white
like lightning, or a floater. The dogs leap after hare
in winter wear
a breath between hemlocks, mossy
squirrel cone
scatter, the mushroomed pale
faerie ring. A whiff
of magic lingers
like snow. They say
in town, a white raven jostles and croaks
among glossy black, a herald
in frosted wings. It’s a risk to stand out
against the cadaver colors
of late Fall
but in truth, every life does. Even now, blanketed
and banked by winter
in a sudden, thorough grip
the vole shoots across drifts
on velvet feet, its body
a burning star
each exhale a puff
of smoke.
*photo: snowshoe hare tracks