The air breathes frost. A thin wind beats
Old dust and papers down gray streets
And blows brown leaves with curled‐up edges
At frightened sparrows on window ledges.
A snowflake falls like an errant feather:
A vagabond draws his cloak together,
And an old man totters past with a cane
Wondering if he’ll see spring again.
- City Autumn by Joseph Moncure March
