Fiery orange leaves turn to heaps of ash,
civilized mountains overlook them
but are too preoccupied
to care.
Artificial-white clouds drip frost pollutant
into Autumn's mourning air.
An exhausted Cedar's limb reaches out
to spare the last of swallows,
instead meeting chainsaws.
Head first,
they collapse in unison-
Stiff crimson wings fold into lifeless
bellies,
Broken legs point accusingly at the
ill-omened sky.
From inside the tree stump's cavity
raven screams disgorge,
harbingers of a wretched destiny.
Far away,
a limp rosebud weeps at her fate,
feeble roots
hug falling ice-coated petals.
She balks at echoes from the mountains,
undying whispers
in numbers that perforate sanity:
maybe next year