Sonnet for the Ides of November

Fair day begins with rainfall of silver,
bedewing magnolia already fuzzed.
New hole reveals enigmatic delver;
dead paper flutters where hornets once buzzed.
Fresh bud-scales begin to spring from black birch,
though groundhog skull presages winter white.
Starling-song resounds from their ivy church
with compline-hymns before onrushing night.
Where are black snakes? Sleeping away their heat.
Where are the chipmunks? playing, growing fat.
Where are the bees? Eating stored summer sweet.
How did fieldmouse die? Under paw of cat.
Dinner and danger define each short day—
the infinite game we play just to play.

Back online after losing my computer, and now trying to play catch-up with all manner of things related to school, poetry and life. It’s proving quite challenging. I give my first exam tomorrow morning, and my second on Saturday. Then it will be time to crash for a while.

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