There is always that last day,

the one you never want to see

and yet what is more beautiful?

This is the day before the day

when November settles in.

This is the day out in the woods

when last silver moths

are winging from moss to leaf,

the day of the last chorus

of swans in the bay.

Today the ladybugs,

awakened by brief sunlight,

are making their small journeys,

today last leaves are letting go,

tumbling down to the beckoning earth.

This is the day I find that hidden shelf

of rock over tossing water, hard couch

of longing for days of summers past.

This is the amazing day

I watch a proud mink

trotting into the forest

fur gleaming dark wet

a fish in its mouth

wriggling in the ecstasy

of November's little deaths.