The reds, yellows, greens and browns empty the witch hand shaped woods,
The brisk wind swirls as mother Earth exhales awaiting a long sleep,
The chipmunks gather,
The birds sing the song of beauty and finality,
Mothers, sisters and friends gather, bundled up for outings of shopping and spending,
Fathers, Grandfathers and sons clad in forest green Camo, smelling of deer piss and coffee ready to kill the 12-point buck they had been vying all year.
The transient bundled in thrift store patchwork clothing, pajamas and a Santa hat pushes her shopping cart along the road, talking to herself, she is missing a shoe, but nobody helps her.
The sun begins to set,
The air gets colder,
The singing of the birds dissipates
And the houses light up
Some blink, some do not.
The giant snowmen gradually grows.
Reindeer turn there robotic heads in unison.
Faint Mozart in the background can be heard.
Smoke wisps out of chimney's as families return home.
The transient watches, laughing to herself.
She shoves the stale biscuit into her mouth after she offers it to nothing beside her.
The sky is dark.
The day is over.
Winter is near.