Red fox shivers against a biting wind
after a short trot through fall tradition.
Now comes, at nature’s whim, call of winter.

Leaves tear themselves from limbs that droop more than
yesterday. Their vibrant colors fade, so
quickly replaced with neutral browns and grays.

A deathly quiet descends – no sound now
but mean-spirited gusts that coil and mock
all things living with dervishes of loss.

Slick-winged ravens preside over the scene.
They pick at peeling bark, ruthlessly squeeze
last vestiges of green from barren tree.

In an upstairs window across the street
a little boy presses his nose to glass
partition that separates him from play.

Reluctantly, I retreat, withdrawing
into my empty house, where I will mourn
what’s gone and embrace my lonely spirit.