The first snows have fallen.

the daily visitations of geese are dwindling
but not the nightly sprees of the specters.
the sun offers little more than light
and if I listen, the forests are saying to move on.

It is November.

All has become barren here.
my plans are on horizons but my words
remain in this place, slowly freezing in lake’s edge,
slowly distancing from citizenship + décor,
slowly shifting now, to the language of lunar ways
& restless days & nightly howls
calling just outside my window.

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