Bare and broken branches litter the ground
and the smell of heavy, wet and earth hangs overhead.
Small girls in flannel nightshirts are crowned
by halos of sweat-damp curls as they dream in bed.
A dying autumn breeze now slips through the forest,
through the wind-whipped oaks and elms and pine,
and scatters leaves across the pavement before us
as you slip your cool, dry hand into mine.
A rumble of thunder reaches from three miles away
and dampens the cackling caw of a blue-black crow,
lending to this mood that our words fail to convey
on our night walk toward a washed-raw tomorrow.
    The jack-o’-lantern grins have long wilted and curled
    and a low creeping fog has enveloped the world.