At what used to be seven
the morning song of birds
is sure testament
that nature knows not
of time or its savings,
knows not the precipice
of this November day either,
its teetering like the leaf,
the late autumn scrap
releasing its fine grasp
and settling to earth
without so much as a crash,
a softness and a quite
for which we can only hope
as we face the fall.
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Photo & Poem ©2026 Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you’ll love my book SLEEPING WITH GHOSTS, on sale at my Etsy Shop.
