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.