November 04, 2012

Migrants


November: the day half-dark before noon.
Six thrushes sentinel in a rowan
Stripped of berries. The gutters are full.
Sodden leaves slip and rot underfoot
And the lights come on too soon.

The wet streets huddle and dim. The thrushes fly.
Cats hunch under cars from the rain.
Around and above the chill city presses
A vast and louring sky.