the changing of the seasons

In Late November,

sunlight budges the clouds

“NO CUTTING” hisses Autumn–

the Politeness Police, apparently, protecting

Clouds which were jaywalking to begin with

Throwing looks (WHAT?) to the sky.

All of them P.I.N.S, practically.

“WALK, don’t run,”

November says coldly.

Meantime the leaves pause

(Was the scolding intended for them?

Is the interpretation optional?) They shrug,

Pop and lock, spin–cusp to edge–

Scatter when caught

(Unaware they are captivating

If irresponsible)

In the middle of the street. The scattering leaves,

Signals the changing of the seasons.

The day loiters, longer than previously scheduled

Finally chilling out, twilight

Flirting with the pollution at five-fifteen.

Tail lights from cars

Tap red as if color were morse code, or bright

Echoes in waves to guide bats,

That machines of our mobility are a way for us

To be mouthy

With the encompassing natural world–

As if we were in it.