It happens every year around this time.

The winds starts to pick-up and change from a warm westerly direction, to the chill of the Canadian north breezes that ice over windows on the inside.

It seems, that these old bones can tell, as well as these old eyes, when the trees start whistling a-bit

to the chilly Wyoming skies.

But the last great photo of natures camera, before the howling of winter is at our steps.

Is the Wyoming colors of fall, that nature delivers to us.

Now it’s nearly impossible to describe, what nature has spent eons learning to do right.

Blazing the colors from green to orange in the aspen groves of a mountain morn.

The cottonwoods shimmer thier hints of tarnished bronze and copper leaves,

it seems damn near ridiculous, to try and describe these.

One can’t even come close to drawing a picture with words, to the chaotic beauty of a Clematis bush,

wrapped in buffalo berries that seem to defy gravity, hanging there all by themselves.

Not to mention the golden coat of a milkweed plant, overflowing seeds that glisten rainbow colors in the light.

It just wouldn’t be describable, it couldn’t be imagined in words,

The colors of fall, my eyes have heard.

Wyoming Fall

Wyoming is home and where I'll die, So bury me under these wide open skis. Give the poem of a praire platue, and I'll be a happy man, when it's time to finally go.