The November sun harvests ill tempers,
shooting paintballs in halls of amber.
Days of bleached parchment
call out the oldest boats.
A fishermen humming off key, rigs for bottom fish
while his sleepy boat misbehaves.
Choirs tune up slowly,
sending choral swatches out through tight windows.
Quilts hang over the back fence to air out,
painting a triptych for the moon to finish later in silver.