Brown September leaves
crunch under my dragging feet.
On the power line above,
a murder of crows dances
beneath the stars, dull
and fading.

I found the note yesterday.
Crinkled and torn, I feel it
in my pocket. With a shaking hand I
pull it out.

A breeze, cold and
harsh, whips my pale cheeks
as it stirs the leaves
and twirls them into an angry funnel.

I shoved the note in my pocket
the day before they cut the rope
to let you down.

In the distance, a wolf howls.
Its cry hangs
in the still, damp air. But
there is no moon tonight to
illuminate the sky. No, it rests,
taking a break from the chilled world.