It's November again.

Old men mount bicycles,
wobble down cobblestone,
shift weight
as they pass the churchyard.

Early evening. Cold rain.
The trees are stripped  of their pages.
In the morning:
the scurrying of confetti.

The mailman smiles--
smells old smells.

The children sit in a circle,
mill dead leaves, build a mound
of tree dust between them.

It's November again.

Small boys mount bicycles,
wobble down cobblestone,
shift weight
as they pass the schoolyard.


                                                          K.D. Mann