Song
The first thin frost
Is clipping afternoon,
And stationery-blue sky has begun
To fade almost to white.
Up high there, in what’s left of light,
Bereft of any hint of sun,
All tints will soon be lost.
And yet there’s still that towering, tiny moon
In dirty-dime disguise,
The silver-pin jetliner
That begins to rise,
And, sown by some great hand,
A cast of swallows
Growing ever finer
As my failing vision follows
Toward where they mean to land.