October Something of Every Year

The wind detonates the wicks of oak trees; a
releasing of leaves. Arboreal rust particles
descending heavily against the top of my head.
Gliders, the color of tarnished sheet metal,
propelled by northeast gusts, burning angel wings.

I wander about through rows of corn, wind up in
soybeans. There’s unnervingly large paw prints from a
massive cat. I judge by the size that it has to be a cougar.
The tracks lead to the shallow water ripples of Peck’s Creek.

What’s next? A sarcastic fog, a hilarious hail storm?
I diverge throughout all this and wonder how long the winter will last.
I’ve got valuables on the over/under of when the bats will be back.
They’re annual laughter compels me think of childhood, trapping lighting bugs.

Vegetation nose-dives from wooden limbs like
drunkards plunging off the wagon. Life saving

moister trickles out of the oxidized spigot.