cranberry sauce
tart, sweet -- spilled on my jacket
red badge of courage

a pigeon flies through
under a covered walkway
escaping a hawk

(they marched -- Barbara Tuchman wrote -- to bands and cheering, waving crowds... that was in the endless summer days of August, 1914.)

their shattered bodies
piled upon each other
all parades end

gray goose glides
just above me as I pause
to tie my shoestrings

Seven gables crown
that gray abandoned house
I walk by briskly

on the time change

Do we fall behind?
No, time simply moves forward
-- with or without us

the punter warms up
as fans begin to leave
he waits for the snap