Bare trees beckon home

setting sun as wild geese

call to waiting moon.

Gold leaves at her feet,

gray tree stands, poised and ready

for winter’s slow dance.

Work done, old man rests.

Still pond catches setting sun.

A far whistle blows.

Among rolling hills

a lone tree stands, arms raised

to catch falling moon.

Deep in sleep until

a nudge, a sigh, a pawing

pull me into day.

Strong wind tosses leaves

to unseen catchers nearby.

Two deer watch the game.