In October the days shorten, the last ragged golden filigree is stripped from the trees, and the clouds chase the light.  The foreknowledge of November’s wild darkness makes the last, glorious life of October even more vivid.

I watched the sun set on its day.

The mockery it made

Of my owned hours.

It vanished from my eye

Regardless of the time

I had yet to run.

The last cloud shattered light

Burnt out the hurrying leaves

Falling down to night.