by Loren Horton
Whose idea was it
To go for this walk
In the crisp autumn afternoon
Scuffling through fallen leaves
Turned red then brown
Shuffling through unmowed grass
Brittle as straw
Against our leather shoe soles
Head turning from side to side
In pendulum rhythm
So we do not miss
Those hidden virtues
Of bright gleam of goldenrod
What is that rustling overhead
Scampering squirrel
Brief glimpse of red tail
Disappearing behind the branch
Of tall shagbark hickory
Soon the path will change
To snow, and memories
Of this good idea
This walk in the crisp air
Of autumn's glory
