up stream

within the hollow
of these old woods
there is a turn of
season in the fallen
leaves, the wet
trunks of bent and
heavy trees that may
or may not make it
through the winter
soon to come. the water
runs cold across
the smooth white stones
that shimmy in mirage
like fish unable to
go up or downstream.
i know that feeling,
but not now. i am
on the move, like
these woods, turning,
with color with design
for the next season
already set and
moving.