Things are coming loose
along the route
fall took four months ago.
Something is loping
cross-field toward you,
getting barked off farms.
The first plover of the year
knows it and takes off
piping like a cork
worked in a bottle neck,
and now you will have to
stand your ground alone
while something forces
thickets, splashing among
old leaves, and half-white,
half-red Connecticut mud,
a heap of old snow,
the runt of the litter
looks back once, heading north.
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