End of November

four short poems

End of November 


Morning haze burning off—
the cross 
on the steeple gleams. 


***


Starlings (one mind 
radiating throughout 
a thousand wings)
contract and expand
over a vacant church
like a plastic bag
whipped by wind.


***


           Red as a warning, 
a winterberry shrub 
           flashes through the gaps 
between coils 
           of dormant grapevines.


***

    In the dying light 
a yellow leaf
               clings.