Due North (draft I)

Driving North
in mid-November
even the telephone poles
are wind-whipped.

Against the glowing
opal sky -
the coal black flocks retreat.

Cresting a low hill
the pyres
of twisted summer bougs
burn red gold along the shoulder.

After an early harvest
the wheatless fields
are stripped
like beds made ready
for winter blankets.

Nestled into
the drivers seat
I feel the shift of the earth's axis-
across the millenniums
even the role of the
North Star passes.