With stealth the orange sight is flitting
Like a drunken angel weary
In short bursts higher on the wind
Gusting ‘neath heav’ns painted eerie,

Was its sign their grim demeanor,
For they brood overcast and grave?
Or is it simply wary of
The chilly way the skies behave?

Would I could accompany you
To where you flee with good reason!
Winter’s dirges sound while flees the
Last butterfly of the season.