November, by Rod Drake

Early November. Dark, gloomy days with cold rain here and there. The yellow and scarlet leaves stick together on the ground, wet and overlapping. Today I walk alone, hands deep in my coat pockets. Old ghosts swirl all about, but know enough to give me space. I think of her, time traveling in my mind. I feel like H. G. Wells. Goodbye Amy. The old red brick school building I walk by stands as a silent sentinel to our past. A new drizzle drops more leaves to the grass and chills me. I move on.