Dance of the Trout Run Trail

August starts its descent into fall ...
the sun takes longer to rise and, like a toddler, tires easily at the end of the day
the crickets chirp a requiem to the loss of summer.

Yet the trail gives a final party - a dance in reverence to all that summer brings
billowing clouds suspended from the clearest of blue skies
providing shade to tassels thrust high by maturing corn.

The tails of dairy cows keep time as they swoosh the buzzing flies away
their mouths pull sweet clover from the ground
their gentle moos join together in chorus.

The trout streams gurgle as the sun flits across their rapids
the rocks carry a cadence that elevates the laughter
of children with fishing lines hanging from the bridge.

The woods push out the pungent odor of death
the thicket buries a small animal that has gone there to rest
taking its energy and keeping an eternity of secrets.

My tires bump across railroad ties laid out like a xylophone
wafting up the smell of oil and licorice and smoke
layered into their core from years of service and miles of journeys.

The monarchs waltz among Queen Anne's lace ... dainty, yet majestic
the yellow petals of black-eyed Susans dip like hula skirts
the bees two-step with the sunflowers.

Birds sing to each other as they grasp the grasses
taking a rest from their daily chores
red-winged blackbirds sing instructions like the caller at a square dance.

The breezes stir as the sun dips further
the crickets begin their song
my tires stop with the grind of loose gravel
and I look back with a final bow of gratitude.