Autumn's light is at its best now, especially when afternoon filters it through the changing trees and it gets another coat of gold. The air smells good, too, now that the rains have the grass growing again. Sunday brings light traffic, and the leaves can be heard as the breeze flutters them. Enough are still green that the sound is as soft as the air, and enough are already dry that they add a bit of bite to the music. It's that mingling of contrasts that makes a mild mid-autumn day such a delight. Neither summer's oppression nor winter's aggression intrude. Add a slice of warm pumpkin bread with melted butter and a cup of tea, and it's all music to all the senses. Well done, November.
by Terrance Hayes
I am sometimes the clarinet your parents bought your first year in band, my whole body alive in your fingers, my one ear warmed by the music you breathe into it. I hear your shy laugh among the girls at practice. I am not your small wrist rising & falling as you turn the sheet music, but I want to be. Or pinky bone, clavicle. When you walk home from school, birds call to you in a language only clarinets decipher. The leaves whistle and gawk as you pass. Locked in my skinny box, I want to be at least one of the branches leaning above you.