I practice one leaving each season.
This morning before dawn, my bag in hand,
and out of every green thing or reason,
autumn’s rust rises. I return to the place
where I live: I sleep in the sky—flown west—
I drive south, crest the hill, come home unlaced.
At the town’s limit, a raccoon’s banded
eyes are closed, small fist tucked into its chest
in the center of the road—not asleep but still, whole.
A doe and twin fawns step into twilight.
The skunk smell buried in the old dog’s coat.
Edges of welcome that hem the night.
