And to watch the treetops, as they sway.
They sway, deeply and loudly, in an effort,
So much less than feeling, so much less than speech,
Saying and saying, the way things say
On the level of that which is not yet knowledge:
A revelation not yet intended.
It is like a critic of God, the world
And human nature, pensively seated
On the waste throne of his own wilderness.
Deeplier, deeplier, loudlier, loudlier,
The trees are swaying, swaying, swaying.
The Region November--Wallace Stevens
The trees on the far hill are nearly bare now.
Indian Summer's come and gone. It certainly shows up on the temperature graph:
A warm week, then the big drop on Saturday. For overcast we might be moving into the gray days again. And a touch of rain last week, too.
Deeper in the forest, its nearly all bare except for the green brush
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