Song of Autumn by Mary Oliver

In the deep fall

don't you imagine the leaves think how comfortable it will be to touch the earth instead of the  nothingness of air and the endless freshets of wind? And don't you think the trees themselves, especially those with mossy warm caves, begin to think of the birds that will come--six, a dozen--to sleep inside their bodies? And don't you hear the goldenrod whispering goodbye, the everlasting being crowned with the first tuffets of snow? The pond vanishes, and the white field over which the fox runs so quickly brings out its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its bellows. And at evening especially,  the piled firewood shifts a little longing to be on its way.