It was still summer-late August-
But during the night, fall had crept in
For a preview.
Breath hung in the dawn air a moment
Before floating off
And mist settled on everything,
Dripping from mailboxes and signs
A few degrees from glazing.
An old farmer had risen early
Excited by the chill.
Thinking October thoughts of
Hunting and pumpkins
He drove his battered mostly red pickup
Toward town.
Rounding a bend his left rear tire came loose
Dropping the hub in a banging, grinding, sparking,
Skid into the asphalt.
The tire kept going
Across two yards, through a birdbath
And flowerpatch, splitting a fat rhododendron
Finally coming to rest with a thud
against the home of a chain stretching, growling, teeth baring
German Shepard named Leo.
The old farmer leaned against a fender
Of his listing, clicking truck
And lit a cigarette under the red sky.
It was going to be a good day.
Hot Bottoms 