Satisfying! High winds and (car) alarms before stasis and silence: late autumn is poetry season. I posted McGrath’s Beyond the Red River in the reading rooms this week:

Now the long freight of autumn goes smoking out of the land./My possibles are all packed up, but still I do not leave./I am happy enough here, where Dakota drifts wild in the universe,/Where the prairie is starting to shake in the surf of the winter dark.