Over the wood fence into our backyard
a butterfly floats the warm November air,
undaunted by bare branches. It arches
through tunnels of afternoon sun and shade
alternating bright white, spectral.
Our tabby cat, fur thickening
into dark gray clouds
watches and yawns. In the shade
we can feel the cool night descending,
and talk about the house -
who might buy, where we'll go.
The tall birch breathes,
gently shaking a frayed and weathered rope.
In the last sunlit corner of the yard
perfume from a pink rose beckons.
The butterfly drifts in, folds its wings
and sips from summer again.