Indian Summer (a poem)

To the casual driver passing through,the hills might still look green.But I see yellow in the poplar,brown in the sumac,tinges of rust around the oak.The chestnut and ash are absent. There used to be music,but the summer songbirdshave all gone.The cacophony now ofcricket chirps and katydid trills,the fluttering wings ofdragon and horse fly. Calendars claim…