Autumn shifts,
centers in the life halving.

Shapes of birds above done fields,
hills, trees decided light
takes in its arms.

The thin trees are the order to understand—
branches a future intends,
elsewhere for now.

Head down in winds
I go to find it, crossing a track a wheel made long ago—
pressing the earth without pause,
calm, maximum.

My contest distorts my fit inside it—
pinning my hands to finish
without sums.

Instead, I turn some other figure,
one seen through the end
the woods creature,
one within the deep November.