Indian Summer

Pyracantha berries are tiny sun-burnt heads—catbirds gorge themselves. First snow is thinkable. I watch my parka on its hook: arms loose, bent slightly at the elbows like a cocky boxer’s inviting a head-punch. I’ve a mind to take a few swings myself. Would keep me warm & humming like those die-hard insects rubbing away with their hind legs in shriveling weeds. Leaves cringe into dirty red & dirtier yellow. But so help me sunlight through snow-bound branches is the flash through a bird’s head when the window shatters its skull. I lie down, hug knees to chest. I am a soft plump morsel in a bird’s belly. Tomorrow, a seed among palmettos. Look for me soon, know me by leaves in my hair.