The stones are grown over with moss,
canker-eaten, illegible even to the sun
leaving the outskirts of our land.
Cobbled fence. Property line that runs
into the pines, where my father tapped a stake
in the ground, tacked an orange marker.
Pumpkins and mums form autumn,
and the next season prepares itself
like a spirit slipping into the skin of an animal
for some private need, to save a favorite son.
Soon there will be only two things left,
meaning and snow-meaning, bitter choices,
the kind my ancestors needed to warm themselves
as ice lined the slats of their cottages.
Now I see older things developing from my spot
at this window, like space emptying light,
and the outline of a fox trotting along the far end
of our land, looking for something to kill.