Indian Summer

Red leaves fade to gray
in hot October haze.
Birds cock their heads
amid the rustle
and whistle songs
I haven't heard since spring.
Perhaps the winter passed us by...
Time to find a mate
and build a nest.

Nearby, a doorless car
creaks beneath the sun,
its rusted roof a griddle
quivering with heat,
reducing sugar maple leaves
from gold to caramel.

The fallen kites curl 
and skid across the metal.
Bits of brown and dry
break free and fleck
the sky of summer
lulled to sleep.

Like me, nodding off
to birdsong
and the glow of blood,
brighter than the trees,
burning orange
through my eyelids.

Scott Speck
10/24/2001