The bell chimes five recorded times.
As shadows lengthen,
the sun gilds the bellies of clouds.
This autumn air smells like a bock beer,
filled with bitter and sweet.

A city man in cowboy boots strides past.
Without thought, I whistle the mournful theme,
though it’s harp that blows in my head.
He joins the homeless loafers outside the library.

Flaming trees lap the concrete walls
of the centenarian church,
scorching the blocks in charcoals.
I shake the wrought iron rail and conduct
the coldness of the columbarium.

The pin oak rains brown wings that
spear my hair or catch in the collar of my coat while
a hidden fountain harmonizes with rustling leaves,
with melancholy ecstasy.

11/28/2010

Author's Note: downtown daydreamer

Posted on 11/29/2010
Copyright © 2026 David Hill