Am I the first person to recognize them?
Stones of ice tapping on the pool cover
On the bed of leaves and blades of grass
Falling unheard on my woolen cap.

The odor of burning leaves wafts
Through the vines of the neighborhood
While I push a wheelbarrow full of wood
Dirty and tied up with mycelia.

The hailstones fall out of a bright gray sky.
Little stones, they leave an
Impression on the eye and drop, clatter,
Roll a few inches.

It is still warm, slightly below freezing
A good temperature for a late-fall hailstorm.
Just listen: pst, tip, tip, pit, tip
The music of ice on the world.