by Sarah Bloom
Walking the railroad tracks
Through the bowing pine, a pile
Of stones as big as foot-
stools and out of place, through
dense forest that closed in on
us, the clouds’ accomplice,
on a dark grey fall day, the
two girls and the two dogs and
I were caught up suddenly
in a whirlwind of yellow
leaves, swirling about like dollar bills in
one of those game show machines,
swirling so fast and so
perfectly that they seemed
to make a sound, a whirring,
a rushing song of cyclone
that could keep us up and
set us again unharmed
on the other side of the world.
To be honest the only
sound was a crackling of leaf
against leaf and the splash
of my brindle dog gamboling
through a ditch of rainwater.
The six year old heard it
and said, That’s kind of beautiful,
the sound she makes in the water.
