Yet To Come

It is a truly glum day after
the too-brief sojourn into
Indian Summer, the last
brave hurrah of the year's
live-and-let-live season. Gone
the pellucid lid of Earth,
hidden the sun's disarming
rays - behind the immovably
stubborn metal-hued clouds.

The rising warmth lies sunk
into a sizzling funk of bitter
acknowledgement. Of fiercely
oncoming blizzards of snow
and ice fog, freezing rain and
Arctic wind hovering upon the
inevitable cusp of arrival.

The leafy canopy of the forest
has dissolved into sere,
bare boughs. The creek has
surrendered to freeze-up,
and this cold penetrating rain
chills creatures not yet
accustomed to the memory
of what is yet to come.