Thanksgiving in California 


November has a lovely way

of mixing gold into the grey,

as tiny amber cones that dot

each redwoods’ evening silhouette


A vee of geese, in honking verse,

pass fog the sun can’t quite disperse.

It glints up from the puddled lane

we stroll along through misting rain.


And in the growing dim of night,

punctured by each passing light,

we think of feasting soon to come,

with parents, children, siblings—some


come from far to gather here—

most heads grey, a few are fair.

And we shall toast our company:

Grey, with Golden filigree.