An October Day

In the nut–brown woods
I sit by the water
hearing the far–off mutter
of wind in the tops of the trees.
On the brown water
a raft of brown leaves
revolves, with so little way
the gentlest reversal of air
suffices to tum it about.
A falling leaf
and its image meet
without audible impact.
Small unspecified birds
moving about their business
seem in a mood to listen
rather than utter.
I like it here by the water
in these brown woods.
The year is not dead — nor dying:
only a little sober,
tuming things over
in its mind.