They begin to come downThis time of yearFrom the Mountains.And in my town, You are as likely To see them anywhereAs you are to see peopleOr birds at the bird feeder.But if you are not careful,Just like birdsThey disappear.Did you knowThat there are peopleWho cannot see the birds,People who have notSeen them for years.It is one huge Mass of metal for them,And glass, and woodAnd papers filled with numbers,And dates on a page.But for those still aliveTo their soul questionsIn OctoberAfter the first snows,The deeper world Of the mystic wood Seeps down into the towns,And if you watch,You will see itIn their eye.And then you will know That there is hopeAnd that you are notOut of reach.Thank God!

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