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.