The woods right here are anything but clear,
And not so lovely, either, though the year
Is passing wildly into fall, and the tangle on the trail
Is a solid form of fire, but not pale,

So this small explosion on the path ahead
Is like airy fireworks on the ground instead,
Where log and tendril, root and vine,
Rocket up and intertwine,

Proving that in nature chaos is a pose
That throws a riot to make a rose.

Tippet Alley
September 10th, 1994