Peter Newton

Leaving Vermont

The first bright flare of autumn catches my eye toward the top of an old maple. It's official. In the rear-view mirror the seasons are shifting. These weeks each day each night a moment's gift luxuriating in the steady downstream sound of the river with its backdrop of child-drawn pines. I am just beginning to settle into the theme of trees trees trees as far as the eye can see. Silence is the soundtrack of this place. I listen to it like an anthem. Pledge my allegiance past all the old haunts to the highway south even the road is a ribbon home.

summer's end –
       a star falls
                       toward me