SIGNS
By Wallace McRae
It's not the crying Vs of geese
A-flying overhead.
Nor the inconspicuous buckbrush
Suddenly, strident red.
It's not the horses hairing-up,
The creek a-turning brown.
Or the ash tree getting gussied up
In her saffron dressing gown.
It's not the blue-tinged frosty morn,
The coyote getting bolder,
The faint ache in my steel-pinned leg
Reminding me I'm older.
It's not the spring-green grasses,
Now a tannish monochrome.
I know that fall's upon us-
Our cats are coming home.
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