Out in the late Autumn, where rising sunlight danced in the colors, now faded, out among the remains of summer, somewhat skeletal, yet all I see inspires me to look for a long cold night dreaming, milkweed pods have burst, the oaks now taking their turn to turn, I see late falling leaves in gusty winds, I see flakes in the sky, geese on the fly, and I wonder why it makes me want to cry, and though I don’t, with a sigh I watch them go by, then I look up to the mountains high still holding early snow, though, for now, it is gone here below