The squirrel lifts its head
as acorn falls, alarming all
against the gravity of autumn.
Solemn leaves of orange, pale 
against the sidewalk chalked by children who live here,
riding by now, plowing through late morning as Moses through Red Sea-
warning neighbors recently wed, the beauty of life to be,
of life that was, as others’ lives come to dusk, grandparent of the street whose feet shuffle slowly,
feeding birds who greet this quiet community with their own,
interrupted by invitation to observe, daughter has worked up nerve to try,
bike off sidewalk, just a moment but smiles years in practice,
proud to her father, sits on porch swing slow, wind blows and leaves fall like gentle rain,
plainly proclaiming place where life will come again.
Small nod and raised hand sing hello to passersby, one cannot pause – spoils of her morning in hand.
Each front porch presenting welcome demands of slow-worn paths into community,
lit by street lamps that saw grandparents with mud pies.
words from wick 