Evening’s colder.
The crickets are crying.
October nears, and
The forest is dying.
Birds in their companies
Far-away flying;
Trees shedding foliage—
Their forest is dying.
I’m in a fog, and
My spirit is sighing.
Where can I go where
My wood isn’t dying?
Shadows are stretching;
Perhaps I was lying.
Here I will stay, and
The forest is dying.
Mariella Hunt 