Leaves descend cheerfully, and circle fraternally, then fall into snug beds when they’re dead. The sun disappears each night, as the moon takes its place but it’s a phoenix-like fate. Tonight night is a placid sea, which overwhelms me. It has no shore. It doesn’t roar, But it creates shadows, which, like lizards, crawl along my floor. They’re a kind of poetry, and poetry reflects life, but I find there’s no grief, when they exit my back door, leaving with the wind, as it blows away dead leaves.

Winter freezes the hands and feet, as life continues, but the mind is numbed to sleep. Nature maintains a balance. It’s laws are complete. They’re devised with an unseen will. As a hawk spies a wren, he dives with an acrobat’s skill. The wren’s death is the hawk’s gain. With no knowledge of science, or employing a disguise, he must survive, and the hawk accomplishes his task. It’s a riddle to me. If I look in my books, They’ll give me answers, but I feel that they’re merely ingenious lies.