On Wednesday, migrating bluebirds hopped among the last few golden leaves of my sugar maple.
This morning autumn was done.
The frosty air smelled like snow. The sky was gray. The cold, damp. I thought of hot tea and firing up my wood stove. And hiding inside until the bluebirds come back.
Now Close the Windows by Robert Frost (A Boy’s Will, 1913)
Now close the windows and hush all the fields:
If the trees must, let them silently toss;
No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my loss.
It will be long ere the marshes resume,
It will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.