in English composition class February 3, 1965
is a sad time of year.
trees stand cold and bare, their leaves long since blown away;
overcast sky warns of the long, dark winter to come;
day which never seemed to get well begun
away into night after only a few short hours.
year is old and gray.
foggy, rainy night
stood on the sidewalk in front of the dark school building,
up at a street light that seemed to share my loneliness.
light turned the tiny droplets of rain to silver mist
they fell silently about me.
limbs of bare trees hung broodingly over the scene,
in the fog, glistening dimly in the rain.
stood for a while in the dampness and waited.
Ford hardtop with a loud engine
at the traffic light at the end of the street and came in my direction.
headlights lit up the fog rather unsteadily as it accelerated past me,
came to a stop at the other end of the street.
car paused there a moment,
red taillights mirrored in the wet pavement;
with a poorly-muffled roar
carried easily to my ears through the stillness of the night,
turned to the right and was gone.
the rain continued.
is music in the minor mode.
In the spring, it may be as wildly animated as a gypsy dance,
pelting down everywhere,
flowing away madly,
carrying the mud with it in a frenzied rush;
in the summer, it may come with a roar and a crash and a torrent,
shouting out its thunderous prophecies of doom to the world;
in November the rain is a plaintive song,
wistfully through the mist.
I walked to my car and slowly drove home.