We go looking for tea cedar, crow feather, and first snow
to stick, but find the mud still warm under our feet, the Earth's
moist breath still fogging the looking glass this late into fall.

Deep in our bones, we know we'll waltz on over the Frost Moon
before the first big freeze cracks Ironwood, and the hunkered
Sun, low in her cross-quarter nest, fades into dim Solstice.

The Wind Hag is just now beginning her November dance,
pirouetting north, Superior throbbing her meter
deep into the basalt below and beyond simple ken.

Deep in our bones, we feel the forest vibrate in omen,
but as we’ve no one near to confide in, we must worry
our best wishes, casting spells against the coming darkness.