thick with vapor and cool,
hangs its heavy curtain
of grey afternoon.
In the misty distance
a dog barks and
someone drops an iron something,
a tire iron or a tossed-down summer tool.
The sound of it
wrangles through dense mist,
strangely louder than was summer's lawny din.
Now its time again for refuge
from boney cold, to hearthy den
and bookish cerebral explorations
of the mind and soul, because
summer striving is spent.
The world gathers up its harvest
of gold and crimson profundity
in foggy shrouds of reflective glory.
Across the creek
a burly squirrel stirs
crisp oak leaves,
and the earth
nips off another season of gone green,
drops it down, brown upon the ground.
Next block over
a child yelps some cacophony
of late afternoon frivolity,
and mama calls.
I will go home now, for I remember this.