Indian Summer Poem by Caroline Misner

The birds will find us still,
their feathered backs turned back to us,
even as we walk the path by the river,
sipping autumn’s oaky tang.

The stones dressed in moss, the cedars
with boughs of green stiff lace,
the blemished gourds, the gnats
that swarm in pillows of temperate wind
will all pass.

The amber leaves are buttresses
on the oaks, the clouds pulse,
coarse as washboards, the sun radiates
heat and beats back the frost
so common this time of year.

The birds that scorned us
are calling in favours; I thought
the cicadas would be dead by now,
the crickets reduced to papery shells,
digested. Their songs light up the day!

The sun is an eye peering through
the stained glass leaves. It makes
these woods surreal, like knights
on horseback with sharp staffs
that pull old tricks from hats.