To Keats in October

There they are,  a few dusk-drunk swallows
Up at five o'clock from their eaves and awnings--
--See, these born-again impresarios
Of smokestack and steeple still dip and swing,
And we, if we watch their upgathering, still
Disappear into the veil of things just
Out of eye-shot. Is it too naive, too simple
To think if they're here, then you, too, must
Be on wing above the buildings and traffic,
Dryad of light poles and trees? What a view--
--And how not to swoon in this arithmetic
Of flaring branches, this sensorium
Of twitterings? How not to believe that you
Peer down -- don't you? -- down through
The leaves -- the claret-colored roof of autumn.

--James Kimbrell