We’d come to the compost heap to harvest a poke of genetically dubious
volunteer squash and melons.

Shot a shaggy shadow self.

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Lifting eyes to the hills,
the compost enjoys a 360° sweep,
when the hay’s cut,

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of all our ring of mountains.

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Everywhere, first signs of the retarded deployment of fall colors.

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October 15th used to be middle of the range for peak color
in the middle elevations,

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but in this ever-warming century it’s past Halloween,
sliding towards Thanksgiving.

While, beside the monitor, the last of the color
drains from compost-ready cut flowers,
in splendid decadence.