I will be sorry to see to the stillness of October go, although it lingers in November.
Morning approaches the woodpile with golden light.
Afternoon clouds drift in the bluest blue.
Sun lower, shadows longer, air silent in short-needled trees.
Gentle storms soften brittle ground.
The sun goes down like whiskey
and the moon rises like dough.
Cancer cells are beaten back
and we pause on our walk.
We are still, too, for a moment, forever.
dream ranch 
Then I really would have ended up broke.
You should have been a poet, perhaps, and not a reporter.