Bound by millennia of instinct,
the last loons have left the lake,
headed now for the coast;
we wish them well and ask in
return,
my coastal friends, dreaming as you
do
of vast oceans and powerful tides,
to send them safely back in spring,
back into our lives, bound, as we
are,
to forever hear their mournful
calls
and shrill cries echoing in the
night sky,
reminding us who we are.
Tonight the ghosts loom large
in the October sky, ethereal and
haunting,
a gathering wispiness rising
transparent to stream
above the treetops and across the
full moon’s
face, absorbing her light and
leaving her
a pale orb in an otherwise darkened
sky,
shapeshifters seeking us, their
screams
silent as we hurry inside to hide
ourselves
away from the ghosts and ghouls,
the witches
and goblins, devils lurking in the
darkness of October.
The trees do not need AI to
navigate the forests
or the seasons, nor do the birds
building nests
among their branches, the streams
and rivers flowing,
coursing to the seas, nor the
flowers blooming,
blossoming, creating anew themselves,
as does all life
left alone to be what it is,
purposeful, beautiful
in its identity, recreating Eden,
each to its own self,
symbiotic, keeping nature astir,
bustling, kinetic,
restoring order from the chaos of
being,
life and death and growth, change
and wonder
and awe, becoming ourselves more
human.
The low roar of a breeze howling
softly,
intensifying, receding, or not at
all,
and the rustling of dried leaves scraping
each against the others beneath our
feet
remind us to slow ourselves down,
to rest,
to slumber, anticipating spring’s renewal,
our own rebirth waiting at the end
of winter’s
dormancy, promising us new
beginnings.
