Nuthatch
‘‘….I come back to my dooryard,
to my own wooden step.
“The last red leaves fall to the ground
and frost has blackened the herbs and asters
that grew beside the porch. The air
is still and cool, and the withered grass
lies flat in the field. A nuthatch spirals
down the rough trunk of the tree.’’
— From “Back From the City,’’ by New Hampshire-based poet Jane Kenyon (1947-1995)
