The Last Hours Of Autumn

Whoever is alone will stay alone, will sit, read, (and)write long letters through evening hours.... Rilke There is a light drizzle falling. I can hear it tapping a broken rhythm on the awnings like a novice drummer trying to find a rhythm which eludes him. When will he stop trying, and like me join the silence? Soon the drizzle will change to snow, and lie like a thick coat of white paint over all I can see of earth. But not yet: it is still the autumn prelude of winter. An hour ago, I ventured outside and saw muddy streets almost shining in the white rain, almost - because darkness prevailed. It was intensely quiet. I looked up into the cloudy sky, and felt I felt warmth from distant stars. I am like a pilgrim, who has journeyed long, and suddenly sees the outline of the holy shrine he seeks in the very near distance.