Now

Before the eagles begin their leisurely
Flight down the cliffs to the south
To Florida, probably, where they
Will wear shorts with long black socks
And don khaki hats with built in green visors
To wear during those hot winter months.

They will play shuffleboard on languid
Sunday afternoons, just after a brunch
At that greasy spoon they go to
Every Sunday, every winter, every year
Where Gladys still knows them all by name;
She sure was a looker back in the day.

But her tailfeathers still shake in the right places
And she has a look on her face, wild and serene
That makes those men think sometimes
With a hitch in their avian hearts
That it might not be so late in the autumn after all.

You should kiss me like it's still summer
And I'll burn your lips like a cup of coffee
Or the way the sun sears green from the trees.
Now.