i.
The Widow Wyile rakes
a river of leaves
curled and crisp
crinkle down the winding
way, cousins in earthen
browns releasing tannic
aromas of their return
to earth
tumbling and twirling
as the Widow walks
them along the bends
through their deep crunching
pools their shallow eddies
as either breeze or rake
raise them once more
to flitter in aerial
grace above the golden
movement of their kin

ii.
The Widow Wyile fashions
a mountain out of her river
a good two metres high
then for kicks whistles
for Gorgeous to trot
right into the very
middle

Like a magic trick
one minute the goat
is there
the next—oh my
she’s vamoosed
with a little crunching
sigh
then from within the mound
she nickers something
about naptime
so the Widow takes her cue
drops down in
to the leaves
too