October 10
by Wendell Berry
Now constantly there is the sound,
quieter than rain,
of the leaves falling.
Under their loosening bright gold,
the sycamore limbs bleach whiter.
Now the only flowers
are beeweed and aster,
spray of their white and lavender
over the brown leaves.
The calling of a crow sounds
loud—a landmark—now
that the life of summer falls
silent, and the nights grow.