Golden Hour

Beneath yellow trees,

Wading through leaves

In places knee-deep.

Hearing dry whispers

Of nodding trees,

Already dreaming

Muttering in sleep.

By the creek path

The wind feels wintry,

I can almost see

Snow dancing before me.

The squirrels and rabbits

Are on patrol,

Foraging for food

At the urging of crows.

Soon the woods

Will be lost in wintry sleep,

The trees entranced

With visions of spring.