Wallace Gould

From “In Maine”

BY night, in autumn, do you ever listen

for the waterfowl that are leaving the north?

In the east, there is, perhaps, a harvest moon—

a golden moon in a porcelain sky—

and there are, perhaps, big stars that flare

in a pellucid indigo.

The fields and the meadows are of bronze.

The stark stump fences are of silver, unburnished.

The squashes and the pumpkins are of gold, unburnished.

But do you ever listen for the cries

of the waterfowl that are going away?

In the cold, clear mornings of autumn days,

do you ever watch for the waterfowl?

The squashes and the pumpkins glisten with frost,

and their blighted leaves,

all limp,

all black,

droop, like the wings of slumbering bats.

The winds, indifferent, listless, murmur among themselves.

Disclosing ripe apples,

red or russet,

the bronze, tattered leaves

flutter or sidle to the ground.

But do you ever search the skies

for the waterfowl that are going away?