in fall

By the river the thrice-banded woolly one is a sparkling bristle, black so shiny it glows white, or luminous. I am too close and so it begins to curl, but I back off soon enough. It lifts its head apparent (it is perfectly symmetrical to my eyes), and rears, a tiny fuzzy sausage stallion.

And Hamlet arches to dip his stripes in the river, white flag tail rudder.

I pull one stiltgrass plant from the leersia.

Yesterday up the mountain we find molars and claws, tiny, in scat. Dried, white scat – just compact fur and bone. The pine needles are sharp on the bouldered sunlit summit, and the moss is lightening, letting go, now unhinged tiny carpet islands. At the vista, under sweet white pines, we watch two red-tails riding thermals. There are oaks at the top, too, and all seems thick and durable and dry and tannic. My lips begin to parch.

Under shade the boulders are soft enough with moss and needles, angled gently and we nap. There are whistles from a far-off playing field.

The descent follows stream-bed or game trails, no blazes, and we are in ferns and hemlocks, that “forest” green, and a toppled hop hornbeam taken by the grapes. It is tangled, and could be a dragon’s nest. One woodpecker. The last bridge is old and strong, with the numbers “548” in metal on one of the stringers – this great post lodged in earth and moss used to stand with hawks.