Now constantly there is the sound,
quieter than rain,
of the leaves falling.
Under their loosening bright gold,
the sycamore limbs
bleach whiter.
Now the only flowers
are beeweed and aster, spray
of their white and lavender
over the brown leaves.
The calling of a crow sounds
loud—a landmark—now
that the life of summer falls
silent, and the nights grow.
Wendell Berry
