Shorter Days

As Days Get Shorter. The sunny fall is now dry, hard winter on the avenue trees stand denuded while their offspring the leaves, rustles up and down the street, filling up storm drains and sighing as they dance with a lackluster zephyr, not yet ready to merge into dark soil; tawny and auburn, I look at my hands, not there yet. Few birds in trees they have gone to Africa, which is not far from where I live…for a bird, they spend nights in the avenue’s trees, safer there than on the country side; seen as vermin when there are too many, too few and bird lovers and other weird people, worry if birds of prey will survive. I look up to the sky it is cold and azure but I see the shimmer, not a sharp eyed sparrow hawk or an eagle, but of a much bigger wing span, something is keeping an eye on me, but I wag a finger, bravely smile and say: “no thanks, my hands are not like leaves yet. And as street- lights are lit the day flawlessly glides into twilight.