Autumn Mien

from Field Stones
by Robert Kinsley

The rain in the air,
trees against the gray sky,
leaves that gesture and fall
and fall as,

the small hand shakes,
each its own offering
to the ground

below the frost line,
a man swings a pick, a voice
still in his head

the throaty song
of bird call, his
wingless limitations,

as the dark beetle holds
the soft body of worm
tight in its jaws, and

the compounds give way,
wood and flesh, the small
moments of stone.