The sun is hovering against the southern edge of the sky. All around are signs of waning life. Barren tree limbs expose abandoned summer nests and the garden, now harvested, has put herself to bed. Crows and ravens have clustered into murders and conspiracies, while tuxedoed magpies offer a collective of fall tidings. Along the skeleton limbs, winged seeds are holding on while autumn's golden leaves have scattered across my morning walk. I come upon a scattering of fallen Goldenrain. They strike me as long-stemmed matches that have lost their warming flame. I sense the pull of winter, the slowing down, the shorter days. The cooling sky, the empty nests, the fading out and releasing. As November touches the hem of death, I savor what remains.