It is cold now.
The duck pond is empty.
A last frog sings dirges
on the far edges of the grass.
The air so full with movement

and shadow and crosscurrents
of dry wind that take up
a life of its own and gusts
like a schoolyard bully
at this abandoned house,

moving in on the broken
panes of the people
who lived here once,
filling the void of this place
where dreams used to reside.