These are almanac days, I feel
Autumn crushing down the hours.
Days when the sparrow knows
how long it has to sing its home.
Crickets have watched the sky,
I wish I knew when they ceased
their staying of my sleep.
Even the moss on the oak
is marking the sun’s demise,
and a crow I have seen on the eaves
preparing his funeral speech.
The city has become a wake,
where costumed mourners prowl.
I have seen the Ocean’s ghost
creep softly down the drive.
These are almanac days for sure,
and only the trees seem unaware,
all clothed in greenest finery
for their final fiery sacrifice;
perennial virgins, always being
thrown upon their pyre.
These are the days when death
is always in the street,
is certainly approaching now,
as I wait on the rhythm of crickets for sleep.