Failure, Forgiveness, Farewell

The forest suspects the last darkness
Weaves through the leafless aspens
And slump-shouldered spruce
Ready for winter, their specialty.

I need to go, thinks the wind
On behalf of the clattering branches
That, thanks to the wind, can
No longer hear themselves think.

The winter promises to be mild,
The following fire season dangerous,
But the brown ferns on the ground
Don't know what promises are for.

There's something wrong
And looming between the ordinary
And the gradual disasters typical
Of difficult survival, something

Quick, too quick to catch glimpse
Of as it passes through the gaps
In the wisdom of the older trees.
Not a beast, not a shadow, the end.