Late September.
The doves have left.
The flickers have returned.
I put out peanut suet
for them to lick with
their thin red tongues.
They chase away starlings.
I take the last swim
in the public pool
and pick the orange tomatoes.
A bee clings to the warm bricks.
Hawks disappear. I heard
they leave for Argentina
to die from eating grasshoppers.
The days open
and fall down the calendar
like shells of seeds
eaten by birds.
So many fly south,
but how to know if any will return
as the year sinks into winter
and holidays.
In a month or two,
time to get cold
and slow down,
time to pull winter up
like a star quilt
and attempt to dream
of what flies south or north
and when.
Published in The Ledge, Fall 2001
©Beth Partin 2001 All rights reserved.
