The trees here in the south,
though half-turned from the season,
are still every shade of green.
Moss sways in the cool sun,
casting black and gray shadows
that move like snakes
on my neighbor’s white roof.
He is unaware of their charm,
but they amuse me so.

My home is silent,
but every now and again
a sound like hailstones startles me
(even though we are frost-proof).
Hard, dead leaves are falling,
but what my neighbor sees
is soft and brown and orange.
It flies past his window
in a sudden gust of winter wind,
silent and secret.