Valleys with Hills of Sawdust

October comes,
Stripping the land of color—
Green apples fall ripe from trees.
October comes
Stripping trees bare.
The grounds are air-raided, dug up,
Made ready for winter.
Dry brown shrubs have died,
And are ready to be dug up.

Today is darker, overcast.
The air is chilled.
We’re at the dumping ground
Picking up damp
clods of hay
Old trees
wooden rods
Off of the trailer.

All to be shredded.

Piles of wooden chips surround us,
Hills of sawdust,
Crowding up next to the myriad of workers
Walking the grounds.
Motion. We all continue to move
among these valleys. . .

On the horizon, a storm is coming.