There is a bite in the air,
Not quite cold but crisp enough to know its coming.
Clouds gather someway off,
Bunching in a crude convention
To decide on where to go.
As the anticipation grows,
And my eyes take that furtive glance
To guess the movement,
It is then that you know that you know nothing.
Wind and weather whip about at their pleasure,
So it is only guess that gets us anywhere.
The cold that comes asks not if you’re ready…
They are soft footed, insidious creatures–
We can only have worrisome eyes that,
From time to time,