October the month of my birth and October that blue sky with the heron crossing it, blue walking stick winging against a blue sky and me underneath in the light--trees verging on golden. The night smells of campfires and a half-moon, the morning is scented with dead leaves, a spice. October, the trees are trying on party gowns; want it or no we betroth ourselves to winter. Look at the white flashing: the undersides of a dozen pigeon's wings. Look at the goldenrod come into its glory on the embankments of commuter trains. Let us all praise famous but unnamed rivers. Let us celebrate chrysanthemums as blue as night. Let's give our checkered wool caps to the wind.