​Silver scales flash
in the lake’s chop.
The windward hull
of the catamaran lifts,
under slate gray skies,
while changing its tack.
Sailors lean back,
straining to fight capsize.
I hold my breath
until it drops.
Needles crunch
as I walk the tree line
picking up the fallen cones
of towering pines.
I can taste the sap
beginning to run,
the damp soil rich and fecund.
I am again a tenderfoot,
in this I delight.
Suffused light,
preternatural night.
Woods blush,
and leaves turn
red, orange and gold
Jazz hands waving
bright and bold.
As a murmurous sea
of golden wheat
on the far side of the woods.
Swollen fruit in
orchards and vineyards
giving up their goods.
Mother earth prepares her bed
for a much needed respite
that lies just ahead.
M. Zane McClellan
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