BRÓN TROGAIN

Fall began its descent abruptly this year, 

breaking summer’s anvil almost without warning, 

verdant trees turned yellow overnight, 

having gotten their final curtain call too soon. 

The forest understory is painted with amber light 

of hazel leaves, big leaf maple, and box elder, 

and the oaks are dressed in fiery gowns of poison oak. 

So far, we’ve been spared the ravages of wildfires 

still raging in the Cascades and in the Sierras. 

I can no longer remember the names of wildfires, 

now too many to count. Soon there will be no trees 

left to breathe in this dire Anthropocene epoch.

Distant smoke tints the harvest moon the color 

of returning salmon, but the creeks are dry.

A surprise earthquake keeps us on our toes. 

The earth is moaning and shaking, as if in dismay.

We move into the season with abruptness, no warning. 

The Irish called end of summer Brón trogain, earth’s sorrow. 

A time of ravens on the horizon. May the rains come early. 

For I am tired of weeping, and my tears no longer fall.

9/14 Terri Glass, Write on!