After reading September 2 byWendell Berry(1934-2026).
A short walk in the dusk,
a pale imitation of those summer
trips down to the lake, taken
in the dying light as the harvest Moon
is burning red low in the horizon
over the fields and now silent machines
that all through the day brought
down the soaked gold,
treading the autumn day becoming
autumn night, in my long autumn
unbroken by changing seasons,
and coming home I read a poem
carrying the date of this day,
and on it flocks of birds migrating
over huge sunflowers, like
the ones growing by the road to the lake,
huge still in late August light
now gone, and the skies
empty of migrating birds and their cries.
02.09.2026
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