Autumnal

--John A. Nieves

       

October happens this way—

a quick heat fools the bottom

leaves greener while the top

leaves are already wreathed

in old fire.

On the sidewalk, the crowd

is jacketed, or not jacketed, either

whispering jokes or prayers.

There are no clouds, but

something about the sky

implies rain.

The papers fill with ads

for masks, people

with the urge to hide

in plain sight.

Crows become buzzards.

Slats disappear from ancient

fences. Memories dial old

numbers, find them disconnected,

call back anyway.

Somewhere just above

the horizon, the day moon

realizes it is naked, but

not dreaming.

A squirrel plants a tree

no one will hang from

but all the doors that promise

something sweet are still closed.