Poetry: After Thanksgiving

Not enough mud to say
it’s mud season yet.
That’s in March, April
 
and May. Just enough
for the deer to leave
a good impression.
 
On the dirt road.
Among the spent
shells. And someone
 
else’s glistening
boot tracks.
The turkeys slip here,
 
too, losing
their trail
of feathers.
 
The wind’s likely
to make a headdress
of. To catch
 
on a crown
of antlers.
There’s still
 
a skin of ice,
we have to
think twice
 
about. And not
enough gravel
to make us feel sure
 
of ourselves.
Until July.
Our spring.
 
Our summer.
Fall slipping
toward winter.
 
— Gary Margolis, Cornwall