This year it started to snow on November 3rd—
November 3rd! Big fat flakes, like ash.
I tell Robert and Dave, "Don't have kids."
"Our planet is dying. It's a sign of end the times."
Everything happens for a reason—especially in Seattle,
when the weather turns, it's metaphysical.
People drive carefully;
contract to stay warm, safe, small.
I smoke, and I shiver
and I spot a little time traveler, slowing it down—
weaving fall leaves into a ring o' orange roses,
smiling, snatching each as they fall to the ground.