Out on the lake
which slips by
a deep blue full of questions beneath my canoe,
I watch the hills.
You can only watch something that moves.
You look at something stationary.
But the hills move, though imperceptibly
(in a manner that is so slight, gradual or subtle so as not to be perceived).
They move, this I know, because they are green
yet there is a suspicion, a premonition
that hangs above them, waiting to settle over them.
non è ancora autunno, it says, hovering there.