A Walk Through the City with an Invisible Bear on a Chain.

Listening for rain, like a kid on Christmas

waiting for the hooves of reindeer

on the roof. Please Santa, bring me

some lightning wrapped in a bow.

Thunder, the sound of a storm getting its license

to drive wet and loud, out of sight of the clouds

who now question the decision to give him the keys.

His friend the wind will lead him to trouble.

By mid-August, the sun seems a little older,

yellowing like the edges of an old photograph.

A scattered few leaves change colors --

in the mirror, the greying of my own hair.

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