This reminds me of Pushkin, Christine. He always felt his best in the fall, and the two most productive periods of his creative life came during fall in the countryside. Your poem has something of the conversational intimacy of Pushkin’s “Autumn.” (Maybe I’ll post my translation when the weather is conducive.) No doubt, I’m hearing Pushkin because he’s the poet I’ve spent the most time with, but it’s also my way of saying I love this poem. Especially wonderful is your touch of Ragnarok: “the blue jays' hymn is sung to elder gods.” I have nothing but praise.
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