Autumn Birdsong

 

Rosehips. (Photo from personal collection.)

A poem

I tread

The sodden dirt path, made mud,

Churned and sucking –

Cautious

Wet, sticky steps.

Disturbed

Birds fly with drumroll wing beats,

Abandon fruits;

Berries,

Burst and bleeding.

I stop,

Looking up at branches stripped

By Autumn's teeth,

To hear

The birds still sing.

I hold

My breath a moment and watch,

To blow away

Concrete,

Humbled and wild.

Philip Simons 

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