Coming in, in October

I can’t tell if it’s
the leaves or the light
that are yellow. There’s
a call to the corners
that even the quickest
head turns can’t
catch. Coming
home the trees
are thick with Starlings,
and cry upon cry
they build a house
of sound. A great eye
pulls back its lid and
in it I see a slid down
moon settling into
its apogee. I’m sure
ashes of me are
drawn up to meet
it. And while I think
of the red lining of
my mother’s leather
gloves, I wonder if
I’m blackening a
ceiling somewhere.