The puddles are pink with the sky
The leaves have come down from their high
The moon peeks a sleepy-still eye
As the birds fly like spectres alone

Such craggle trees that grapple not
The lonesome breeze and heavy trot
Of apple knees to people who
Wander wayward, wary too

My shovel down, I hovel up
Betwixt the silent roving hub
That drips its eerie silent way
Forever at the end of day