Last night of the month—
 
high in a dying pine tree
 
an owl waits for prey.

 
 
 

Last days of autumn—
 
so tattered is the scarecrow,
 
it no longer scares.

 
 
 

Gusty autumn day—
 
only a few dozen leaves
 
still cling to the oak.

 
 
 

A crow keeps railing
 
against the failing daylight
 
as it heads for home.

 
 
 

November morning—
 
an old man walks through the park,
 
greeting all the dogs.

 
 
 

Bountiful harvest—
 
songs of thanks for fruits and grains
 
ripen on my tongue.

 
 
 

On Thanksgiving Eve
 
the last Canada geese flee
 
to a warmer place.

 
 
 

Cold November day—
 
I linger over coffee
 
and Sappho’s poems.

 
 
 

Two courtyard sparrows
 
squabble over crumbs of bread—
 
the white cat pounces.

 
 
 

the tea in my cup
 
diluted with morning light—
 
autumn solitude