The river drinks the fire of the trees—
each leaf a cursive line, a signature
in rust and gold, dissolving by degrees.
They twist like hands that once held summer’s green,
now palming light too thin to keep. The air
is sharp with what the current won’t redeem.
Some cling to eddies, brief reprieves—
then yield. The water writes their eulogy
in ripples, smudging where the bank receives
this slow surrender. Every one a page
from some unfinished, fading diary:
We were here. The year forgets. Turn.