It’s that distinct way that wood smoke pummels into the mist

and the way the Sun fights to be regonized.

 

It’s that certain way the trees turn to golden reds

and hues of Ambers.

 

It’s that certain way the mud gets stuck in my boots

and the moist ground summons the fungus to the sky

and then back to its orgins.

 

It’s that certain way the fog dances across the grassy plains.

 

It’s that certain way that the Elk rut

and you can hear their bugle calls

over the hushed quiet of fall.

 

It’s that certain way when you know the white blanket will come

and engulf us soon

and  the wood smoke

and Hearths will be the only thing we know.

 

And in a certain way I give thanks

because in a certain way-

this is what it is all about.

 

All the petty and the trite

gets buried in this scene-

the mists rising above the waters like ghosts.

 

It is these ghosts I give up now,

an offering of smoke.