Summer’s Final Breath
Here in the true southwest,
summer has departed, but
autumn’s full arrival awaits,
offstage, in the wings,
visible but not yet tangible.
Down here, near to both
Mexico and the ocean,
autumn chooses her colors
slowly, carefully,
not combining just any hues,
until one morning in
early November,
as the sun creeps over
Mount Woodson,
she decides to show herself.
Her outfit is muted,
unlike the garish gear
of early summer,
more suited to satisfaction
than excitement.
For that, we must turn to
the migrating flocks,
the departure of the tourist families,
the return of the Snowbirds,
and the squawks of the crows on
their daily trips to and from the dump.
For a simple guy,
whose joy has nothing
to do with clothes,
this is all good.
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