Back in the woods
up the road past
the old town reservoir
where chain links
protect unused water
and brilliant leaves
in the way of
swamp maples

Farther in
the pace of fall slows
to less flashy spots
of orange and red
dropped deep into
reluctant green

Empty spaces
once the home
of many trees
have begun to fill in

Mindful of the light
dipping toward hunters hour
we turn for home
the cinnamon ferns
wear beige now
feather tips point along
the angle of fall sun