Showers shimmy like the rain's bombast. And the cocksure whistlers up the autumn mast. Blows the leaves on by with a lazy breath. A puckered wisdom and violence of a season. Showers icy but the streets are chalk. Like the cocksure whistler's on a winter walk. Calls the snow like father with a frozen gait. He'll sell your joys for a fireplace. For the season.