Late November Offerings

Since the last time,
an old oak (maybe three feet across)
split, with its branches reaching out
almost to the trail.

There, a woman in a white coat
walked slowly back and forth
with her back to her husband,
who stood on the picnic lawn
by a flaming barbecue grill.

As I came near, I could see
he was feeding yellowed pages,
one by one, into the flames.

Back in the woods,
I left my own offering
and received the call
of her red-bellied sister;
that was all.

All that remained after that
were fallen branches
and wisps of gray ashes
flying up through the grates.