The moon wears a veil
of the palest gray, masking
her face from the night.

The oaks are changing;
the dull, glossy green gives way
to the brown of sleep.

A single ringed dove
sits on the telephone wire-
watching evening come.

I expell a breath
like a smoky cloud of fog;
a killing frost came.

Bound by gravity
my heavy feet drag the ground
tired and footsore.

the bare branches lurch
like limber dancers swaying
to the ghost of songs.

My eyes squint with tears
as my old foe the sunshine
shows me who is boss.