Indian Summer

The stillness is so absolute
It seems a sound the ear strains to hear.
The arc of the sky rests, pale blue,
On tree tops outlined on mountain rim
Eastward of our village, and climbs then
To cobalt zenith before it stretches on and on
And finds, finally, firm foundation
On saw-toothed peaks far to westward.

Beneath lies the dun earth
Awaiting the snows.

A bright flash through the bare-limbed orchard
Betrays the flight of the red flicker;
Its single-note cry floats back
Putting a period
After the stillness.