Someone had to be the last.
It's the cirrus sky of mid-October;
season's blood has spilled to ends of leaves,
and from leaves' red or orange dangle, yellow drift,
you heard that end of August, plaintive rasp.
It's like six weeks of fruit
have vanished into this slow rising wind,
and then you're breathless with the suddenness
with which ten minutes pass,
or ten million years as well,
the shadows of these yellow leaves
blurring with pale, soft sunlight
that angles now toward frost.