Now the harvest moon shines in chilly nights,
beaming pumpkin-like; hung in inky space.
Branches shiver, whip in wind-lashed flights,
crying outrage, gripped in cold embrace.
Now the fulsome greens fade to yellow tones,
or drop brilliant red and shrinking brown
to dance askitter over summer’s bones
in rasping counterpoint to drifting down.
Now the field mice creep to warmth and walls.
Birds swoop codas against graying skies.
The trails of nutshell and flocks’ dying calls
speak a denouément, saying goodbyes.
Autumn exhales an expiring breath
to fall blanketed under winter’s death.
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