At the last hour of day
I lie awake in my departed father's old bed.
The night is cold, and Summer's end approaches.
I close my eyes and remember
how afternoon's warmth slipped away—
We were clearing dead branches felled by last Spring's storm,
breaking them up and burning them in a small fire.
Why do clouds look like cotton?, asked my son.
I attempted to answer but he was already lost in the sky.
It was one of those Summer afternoons
when you could sit with your face in the Sun
and convince yourself that things would never end.
The kids had lost their fascination with the fire.
They ran off to pester their grandmother for the grape popsicles.
Alone, I turned my attention to the sky
at the severe white of the billowing clouds.
I spotted at a vast height ten barely perceptible silhouettes
they were birds of prey gliding, not in formation,
but in a rough arc of uneven points.
Independently, each had found and claimed its own place.
I stared, not yet understanding, bewildered.
Then I saw a great mass of shadowy clouds behind them.
The birds were gliding on a fast advancing front.
I stood there lost in the spectacle,
caught up in so singular a vision.
In the evening my sister told me how as her and her family were out boating the weather surprised them.
It had appeared out of nowhere.
I told her how I saw the front
presaged by the shadows of birds of prey.
Over dinner mom, now 83, stated,
Just because it's Labor Day doesn't mean that Summer has ended.
Fall doesn't start until September 23rd.
I thought to myself that she must be tacking on a day or two.
She obviously hadn't noticed the change in temperature.
I spoke of the dark clouds rising over towering pines
and recalled how quickly they came in from the north.
The clouds had rolled in at the exact moment I thought to myself
how it might be a good night to sleep beneath the stars
and share with my children
the wonder of waking in the middle of the night
to find the myriad stars hanging overhead.
Before going to bed I went outside
to make sure the fire had died down.
The clouds hung low,
the sky was starless,
the children had gone off to their cousins' to sleep.
Alone, I crouched over the embers of a dying fire
and attempted to warm myself.
The winds howled through trees.
In the distance, over the hills, the Big Lake roared,
its violent waves, coming early, beating on the shores.
And I there in the darkness
left with one echoing word
Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye.
