Fourth Quarter

Summer's broadcast

is ending.

The afternoon light

is warm but remote,

like chrome reflections

on a hearse 

leading the funeral

procession through

the cemetery gates.

I can feel the world's

pallet dry into

cracked hues 

of yellow and orange

where the veins in leaves

write unheard eulogies

like the ones 

murmured in halls

of nursing homes.

Today I smelled 

a garter snake trail

of chimney smoke;

the throat of a house

clearing itself

upon waking.

Things fall and decay

the air grows damp

and cold.

The dark puts its arms

around the horizon.

There will be whistles

of tea kettles promising

something warm

and of referees 

winding the clock

on two minute warnings.

Soon there will be bowls 

of candy

and living poltergeists 

haunting the streets.

This is my time of year.

This is fall.