November Slips Like a Knife Within

An Indian summer decamps, marches South like a defeated army. Coats are pulled out of closets, cars winterized. Wizards in long white robes hunt the moans of castaway witches. Autumn memories lure cats away, but they soon return to the fireplace, to stretch-out the longer hours. Babies are coddled closer, the sky goes blank, amnesia deleting its colors. There are omens born on chill winds, sparrows go mute in the frosty hedgerows. November takes off its high-hat revealing a bald dome, when you go out alone, you feel its gelid marrow hitchhiking its way through creaking bones.