The sky was as it is now,
a sun dying in the west,
bloody as if the heart ripped from living
flesh,
beats,
obscured by the wispy and tenuous frays,
of cold, impressive, rain clouds, huddled
thickly above
and to the east,
black,
heavy with water, but
boiled or melted away, on the frays,
as a dirty winter snow
on the edge of the highway.
He held my hand tightly,
Pressed his nails into my chilled palm,
Studying the falling night hidden behind
a coming storm.
The moon was full,
but fatigued, it had not resisted
the autumn weather,
and hid its silvery eye from the angry
colored
leaves.
Its deafened ears, aware of only the penetrating
last screams of the end of day,
and frenetic calls of lonely crickets,
did not hear him say good bye.