The evening light of suburban New Jersey
has in it smears of newsprint and the Khaki
shades of trench coats slung over seatbacks.

Commuters descend, single file,
the concrete stairs at Watchung Station,
each hauling the glum luggage
of shadow hunkered at their clicking feet.

A train's whistle blares behind them,
scatters a murmuration of starling
that swoops down, banks, then doubles back
into themselves like a black shawl raised off
the shoulder, alive by wind. It's November

and the maples, having emptied their branches,
rake over their darkening plots of sky.