Palms now bare, grasp at skies of bemused blue,

Along dawdling drives of low-key grace,

I behold a line of savvy, vested dog-walkers,

led longways by the strain of their leads.


A slice of tree-lined urbane, these do-gooders...

Brisk breaths have a prolonged hang-time

Here, below a branch tableau.

Stoic canopies.  A quiet symphony,

an elegant samhain.