October on the James

From Libby Hill the river bends below, And sycamores let go their yellow light; Low water bares the granite, row on row, Like ribs of some old beast gone gray and white. In Hollywood the maples burn on stone, Near presidents asleep above the falls; Rapids that roared in June have dropped their tone, Inside their hush a lone blue heron calls. Canoes slip past the quarry's rusted rail, Half-buried leaves wash up on Texas Beach, Mist rises off Brown's Island, thin and pale, October holds the city in its reach. Night comes on early now, the water stills; December waits behind the seven hills.