Song of Autumn by Mary Oliver

In the deep fall

don't you imagine the leaves think how

comfortable it will be to touch

the earth instead of the 

nothingness of air and the endless

freshets of wind? And don't you think

the trees themselves, especially those with mossy

warm caves, begin to think

of the birds that will come--six, a dozen--to sleep

inside their bodies? And don't you hear

the goldenrod whispering goodbye,

the everlasting being crowned with the first

tuffets of snow? The pond

vanishes, and the white field over which

the fox runs so quickly brings out

its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its

bellows. And at evening especially, 

the piled firewood shifts a little

longing to be on its way.