Cold rain fell all night.
 
Thirsty flower seeds rejoiced.
 
A tall pine toppled.

 
 
 

As autumn winds down,
 
my neighbor scoops pine needles
 
from his rain gutters.

 
 

From its pine-top perch
 
an owl booms out a warning—
 
spring melancholy.

 
 

Twisted tales of spring—
 
I hear them from the raven
 
and the mountain pine.

 
 
 

Sunrise, almost spring—
 
somewhere high in the mountains
 
a pine tree topples.

 
 
 

A crooked pine tree
 
atop the winter mountain
 
holds a scolding crow.

 
 
 

First loss of the year—
 
an old mountain pine topples,
 
but no one hears it.

 
 
 

Who orders the wind,
 
telling it which way to blow?
 
Do you, mountain pine?

 
 
 

Last night of the month—
 
high in a dying pine tree
 
an owl waits for prey.

 
 
 

Nothing stays the same—
 
pine cones, dog bones, river stones
 
crumble into dust.