In the blackness
scuff leaves searching
for autumn treasure,
crouch down
nearer to the ground.
(Risk of being run over.)
Is that a gleam
of brown sheen?
Tipsy with delight,
I dart and seize
a conker.

Note to poem: As a child, conkers were highly prized.  The nearest chestnut tree to our school was inevitably frequented by children who lived nearby, leaving me and my brothers with a much-diminished chance of finding our own unblemished fruit. As an adult, I live near a horse-chestnut tree myself and still feel the wonder of a continual abundance of conkers at all times of day, but especially night.