Cycling Through Adam's Basin

I am spinning toward four corners,

toward crab apple, black oak,

some brick homes and small campfires

of leaves at the curb.

A man I do not know

moves a rake over his yard.

He stops and waves -

his kids tugging an old wagon up the drive.

Cut wood. Sharp brick.

I love these families who hitch

rumpled husks of corn to their screens,

who let the sun work their clothes

while the flicker clacks in the oak.

It's good to see the pumpkins glower,

the squirrels filching apples

from the branches. So I wave back

with the next gear shift,

as these kids spill over the leaves

like a thousand nimble ponies.