Page 39 - WTP Vol. IX #10

The Donkeys in October Wind
It’s not a wind of August.
It scatters leaves and brings down dead branches.
It flattens the ridge of hair
on the donkeys’ spine
bites through their fur.
It blows through the stable
and raises a cloud of wood shavings that look like billowing snow.
Yesterday it could have been summer, still. The donkeys lay on the warm dirt
blinked in the sunshine
dozed and dreamed.
The leaves of the shag bark maple glowed hot red against pale sky then fell. Red stars, everywhere. The donkeys walked on the firmament.
Today the leaves are brown.
There is nothing worth nibbling.
The donkeys bite at each other
for no reason.
But perhaps there is a reason:
The asters, deserted by the monarchs, petals shriveling,
The bumblebees slowed by the cold, clumsy as drunkards, waddling near the entry
to their hole,
The geese changing formation in the sky barking out their orders,
leaving the donkeys behind.
It grows dark before the day is over.
Something is coming
which the donkeys have no name for but which they remember.
It is the wind that warns them.
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