When Change comes
The change of season is upon the land.
A stiff, warm breeze from the south announcing.
A futile attempt to ward off the coming.
Slender graceful cottonwoods wave.
Swaying back and forth in the canyon.
Silly in their yielding to the blow.
It merely rustles the tops of sturdy, gamble oaks.
A stunted species speaks the truth.
Outermost leaves, a vibrant golden hue.
Meanwhile, the lofty layers of thick branches towering.
Blue spruce majestic, ponderosa pine pondering.
Assuring younger neighbors all is well,
But change comes.
A flash of bright yellow.
The oriole skips along the breeze.
It rounds the dead ponderosa to the south.
Then back up to the dead pine to the north.
Fatalities of change.
The light is magical.
Firey, crisp, and bright.
The magic of each Fall, shadows and gold.
Mountains and clouds, white and fluffy;
Dark and menacing, advancing upon the startling blue sky.
Everything is alive, so alive.
Coming out to play on this last day,
Leaves fall and dance.
Birds sing final melodies;
Riding away on a breeze;
Saying don't forget the past.
Change can be magical.
Like this brief time before the quiet.
The death of winter comes yet again.