It's raining nuts.
Oak and hickory trees surround a clapboard house
with a mahogany porch capped by a pine rail.
Acorns beat and tap in late summer,
percussion plays day and night.
They whack, crack, cascade down shingles,
sail in the air, thwack the deck, clink on slate,
ricochet off walls,
land with a whump in moss.
Snare, bass and timpani
strike out a beat in 3 and 9 time.
They pummel home, yard and driveway,
make a feast for crows, squirrels and moles.
Not long ago, this rain song meant bounty.
People would gather, soak and grind acorns,
now we crunch them under our feet
and resent them knocking on the roof.
Season tapers, song fades.
Oak trees beat one last roll
sending red-throated hummers south,
trees go silent when they leave.


This poem first appeared in Naturewriting (September, 2017).
Used here with permission.