At the Equinox

by Kate Cheney

Between window box & clapboard wall, a spider has woven
a sheer tissue of web. It lifts as the cool fall air flows through it,
and waves like a silk flag, a languid gesture. A goodbye.
If it could sound, it would be an oboe. A bird flies in the same
waving motion, up and down: a voice in a meadow singing alone.
A leaf is falling slowly in circles to the seat of an empty chair,
its flame red a complement to the green ticking stripe.
The sky is the color of doves. Layers beneath composting
egg shells, carrot strips, weeds and vegetal remains
have turned a rich brown—the earth has become itself again.
It sings as it turns under the garden fork.
I have been, and now I am becoming something else.