Willow by Galloway Creek
by Harry Hunter, © 2009
. . .
A cool front this late September afternoon
Buffets about a lingering Monarch butterfly
On its way down to Mexico for winter.
My dog chases rabbits from the river cane
Into a planted field of Big Bluestem native grass,
Where “turkey foot” seed heads wave overhead.
A little ways off the beaten path
Stands a wise old willow tree, the biggest I’ve seen,
Its upper branches flailing in the wind,
Its lower limbs bent to the ground by their weight.
One of the latter forms a perfect contoured seat
For momentary senior contemplation
Of oncoming unstoppable autumn.
Darkening Woods
by Harry Hunter, © 2009
. . .
Here in the autumn of earthly life
Those words could signify dying—
Like the snowy woods Frost stopped by—
But tonight they have taught me a lesson:
Never set out on a long hike at dusk
In November under threatening clouds
With no flashlight just to unleash a dog
That loves to run wild and free
Because dead leaves carpet the forest floor,
Disguising the trail even in good light
And hiding it well, once lost at night,
Unless you mean to make a memory.
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