The sun retires at 4 o’clock in this part of the world up north
The branches, shorn of leaves, sport some snow for a new winter coat
Forgotten apples, still crisp, shiver in the November sky
And those who neither reap nor sow can feast just like you and I.
At six o’clock it still dim, oh! how the sun takes its time to rise
Well, who will want to play out in the yard that’s slowly turning to ice?
Except perhaps for those chipmunks foraging the woods for some nuts
And, chittering, store them away in some hole in the tree trunk.