The brief secrets are still here，

    and the light has come back.

    The word remember touches my hand，

    But I shake it off and watch the turkey buzzards bank and wheel

    Against the occluded¹ sky.

    All of the little names sink down，

    weighted with what is invisible，

    But no one will utter them，

    no one will smooth their rumpled² hair.

    There isn't much time， in any case.

    There isn't much left to talk about

    as the year deflates.

    There isn't a lot to add.

    Road-worn， December-colored，

    they cluster like unattractive angels

    Wherever a thing appears，

    Crisp and unspoken， unspeakable

    in their mute and glittering garb³.

    All afternoon the clouds have been sliding toward us

    out of the Blue Ridge⁴.

    All afternoon the leaves have scuttled⁵

    Across the sidewalk and driveway，

    clicking their clattery claws.

    And now the evening is over us，

    Small slices of silence

    running under a dark rain，

    Wrapped in a larger.