Indian summer blew by like
dandelions, nights filled with
a golden orb hanging low in the
shadowy sky, an inflated swollen
moon that whispered of waving
harvests and sun kissed grains.
Indian summer flew by like
birds’ migrations south through
chilled air and leaves turning
scarlet, sunglow, and burnt umber,
pumpkins ripening amidst tangled
vines twisting and turning.
© Pamela Rossow