The cicadas are dying. A few were wriggling in the sink on the back porch the past two mornings. I tossed them into the recently-greened grasses beyond the jasmine hedge. Night is no longer shrill, but a series of lengthening stretches of silence broken by a passing car or a barking dog or an occasional flock of birds migrating south. These are the sort of chilly nights when the sound of my footsteps on the pavement makes me wish for fog to wrap the woods. November needs a blanket.
Uncut Sunday Verse
by Emily Dickinson
The morns are meeker than they were — The nuts are getting brown — The berry's cheek is plumper — The Rose is out of town.
The Maple wears a gayer scarf — The field a scarlet gown — Lest I should be old fashioned I'll put a trinket on.