November

The sentinels of the street have been touched by the coming chill

They dress in yellow, in gold, in copper

Never the same dress as the year before.

They wait, knowing as in years past, that soon the time to sleep will come.

The day has given them a chance to show their glory in the light of the afternoon sun.

In a brief moment, they flash themselves in a symphony of radiance.

The young, bearing only a few shreds of fabric, vie for

attention but are swallowed by the giants in their vast ensembles.

The wind pulls at the hems. Patches open and seams burst.

Soon the colors will fade, their memory burned only in the eyes of those who saw them.

All drop their raiment, building a carpet of fringe and sequins and embellishments tarnished by rain.

A walk under the skirts shuffles the tufts and shreds along the pavement.

The pageant comes to a close.