October. Topped with frost,

they migrate not much less

than commuters and bus drivers

flecked with gray who pass them

every morning, dreaming

of pink summers,

checking for lost plumage

in the rear-view.

Like a cinammon roll, curling

into its soft, sweet center.

Like the cat, curling

into her fur, finding

warmth, peace, knowing

there is nothing to do

but love oneself. This

is where the problem starts.