A man lay softly down
to sleep in his rags
on freshly mown grass
behind a Mercedes
parked at the curb. A festive
time and the leaves
are still falling
in our city with seasons
all its own. It’s a day
for walking slowly, watching
tree by tree
for a kinglet or looking
around for the Cooper’s hawk
who perched a while
on our aviary but failed
to penetrate the chicken wire.
It’s a last chance day but
no outward sign of hope
is visible, just a slowly
circling Red-tail haloed
by the sun. It’s a no-burn,
breathe with care,
look both ways and take
the next step kind of day;
an unpresidential, think
before you say
what’s on your mind
day; a day too cloudy
to be trusted; a day trying
to be a holiday
in the winter
of our discontent.
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