There are no Coincidences

A poem

An impeccable fall day, every hue of orange and red on display Creaking woods, basso profundo trunks clash in a slow march A small mouse skitters between rocks and twigs, stopping quickly, ears alert A whistle, shrill, distant, pierces the moment, accelerating Steam billowing, a train bull-rushing, thundering on a zipper of tracks Sarah wipes a tear with a doilied sopping kerchief Eyes on the trees as they blur past, the memory of autumns in the Berkshires David seeking her young spirit through races among the trees Transgressions and desires in equal measure A gay trounce in spinning leaves of every hue of orange and red on display On an impeccable fall day