Maybe when the fruits have all been brought in, and the chill has taken the green out of the leaves, and there is a little more silence and solitude in the rooms than we wish, it calls out (as the migration-call of south-bound geese) memories and hopes for love.
I turned to face the evening: she was there. Her arms a circle, cool November: mist. The light a fallen curtain; and her hair, a silken flicker turned to mask her face.