October on the James

Faint mists ascend; October sifts the light. Along the James, the maples bank their glow. Low islands cast their shadows into night. Like molten bronze, the riffles burn and flow. In Richmond, autumn sets the banks aflame. No summer song survives the sharpened air. Red leaves drift down, as if to sign their name. I watch the hills grow still, the branches bare. Cool currents turn the fallen leaves to gold. Hushed bells of dusk lie broken in the stream. My hands cup warmth against the coming cold. October keeps what summer called a dream. Now Richmond leans to hear the patient tide. Dusk folds the year; I linger at its side.