Winter Coming On

Morning is pale now, late to the starting Softly in brisk air a year is departing, Trees burn with colors, leaves fall and flutter Hiding the lawn fringe by roadside and gutter. Sharp scornful squawkers, cranes vee over farms, Cornstork-gashed fields, with tall silos and barns, Far edged with the flourish of deep red and gold Which will carpet the banks as days become cold. Smoke from the bonfires by garden sheds swirling Drifts up through the clear air where clouds are curling. Driven by north winds hastening along The season has turned; winter coming on. Crisp apples await for a Thanksgiving pie, Dig out the sweater, a book and the “chai”.