Due east across the Deerfield
Mt. Massamett’s trees succumb.
A cool and windy rain’s undone
the grasp of leaves to limb,
sap slows, and chlorophyll’s gone
as the pigment in an old man’s hair
Yellows and reds
have gone brown,
leaves lie underfoot
dry and spent in layers
deep as dreams blown.
But on Rt. 2 below
a ten-wheel rig’s
upshift growl accompanys
a swift Harley’s gargles—
a sustained deep-throated note
that dopplers up from
there to here
then down from
here to there 

until sound, like smoke,
disappears round humped Catamount
whose foot slides out just so
to nudge the highway south enough
to let a rider, leather-bound,
swoop that curve
constrained only by rules of
friction and inertia, to be 
in a rush of wind adrenaline and joy.

Jim Culleny
November 2007