(Carolina Low Country)
The falling mast clacks on the floor of the forest,
The last sweet, shriveling scuppernong hangs ready to drop
At the deft shaking by the masked raccoon
And the plump partridge struts with distended crop.
In some far glade the black-nosed buck keeps thicket,
May-litter foxes are digging for mice in a furrow;
The chirring cricket is charming the lizard to sleep in his crevice,
The mole in his burrow.
October is loitering over the spicy pinelands;
Over the tops of the trees that listen for frost;
While subtler than parish bells with felt-covered clappers
A huntress in scarlet is calling the dappled hounds she has lost.