Rapids
Fall’s leaves are redder than
Spring’s flowers, have no pollen,
And also sometimes fly, as the wind
Schools them out or down in shoals
Or droves: though I
Have not been here long, I can
Look up at the sky at night and tell
How things are likely to go for
The next hundred million years:
The universe will probably not find
A way to vanish nor I
In all that time reappear.
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