Late fall, a cold day
the bluster of its predecessors
subdued, merely a slight wind
the sky solid pewter.
Trunks and tree branches
harshly bare, the ground
well-littered with crisp
and darkening leaves.
Squirrels rush to retrieve
and cache what they may.
A determined hairy woodpecker
knocking on wood, oblivious
to the murder of crows
high above the naked
tree masts.
A wide-winged grey ghost
slips past the cool, light breeze
to perch, low on the crooked branch
of a weather-splintered elm.
Impassively wide-eyed
implacably imperturbable
shunning the cawing hysteria above
and beyond, its barred
feathered presence
robustly aloof, stately.
This forest autocrat
King of all he surveys.
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