Sap withdraws from the upper reaches
of maples; the squirrel digs deeper
and deeper in the moss
to bury the acorns that fall
all around, distracting him.

I’m out here in the dusk,
tired from teaching and a little drunk,
where the wild asters, last blossoms
of the season, straggle uphill.
Frost flowers, I’ve heard them called.
The white ones have yellow centers
at first: later they darken
to a rosy copper. They’re mostly done.
Then the blue ones come on. It’s blue
all around me now, though the color
has gone with the sun.

My sarcasm wounded a student today.
Afterward I heard him running down the stairs.

There is no one at home but me—
and I’m not at home; I’m up here on the hill,
looking at the dark windows below.
Let them be dark. Some large bird
calls down-mountain—a cry
astonishingly loud, distressing….

I was cruel to him: it is a bitter thing.
The air is damp and cold,

and by now I am a little hungry….
The squirrel is high in the oak,
gone to his nest, and night has silenced
the last loud rupture of the calm.