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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 from tribal memory.
-   Thomas R. Drinkard