November in New England.
A day we call Thanksgiving.
I am thankful that the sun’s out,
so out the door I go.
It feels like a window opened in a stuffy room.
Look up: a stampede of gray clouds
frothing white on top.
The distant ocean horizon is a pale golden
harbinger of winter.
A great blue heron stands in marsh grass,
wondering where everyone’s gone.
The marsh reeds are leaning south, waving goodbye
to another year.
Reinforcements from a high tide
are marching south, and south, and south,
in lines of waves, toward the Atlantic, whose mood
is changing quickly.
The wind is clean and wild and free.
Time to turn back, into a north sky, now.
Clouds like smoke wisps against dilute November blue.
Time, traveling fast.