It’s mornings like this; The stingy sun trying to hold back Even the warmth of its reflection Flashing coldly in the lake.   When November leaves drop in sudden gusts, Like a red and yellow flock of birds Swooping at once to ground. Or even nights: When winds reach wet hands To take you spinning with random paper Down back street gutters, under straining bridges To clogged rivers. It’s this: The time of year, along with spring, When poets must take care Not to sing the same old songs Stolen