standing in a shed ruminating over cans of Miller High Life and Camel cigarettes



hear

how the gray rain

blows open



November's

soggy notes

of beer-colored



leaves

and

cigarette smoke



we stand in

brown shoes

upon orange



pine needles

pointlessly gazing up

the trunks



of brown oaks

and charcoal pines

moist, resplendent



speaking the whens

of fish and ice

on the small ponds



as the brown

earth waits

so do we



for snow