All the colors have gone muted and soft! Perfect November colors.

                              Witness

Who will witness?
Who will see the ordinary--
          the November colored birds,
                    their sage breasts and wings
          dappled and striped like bark?
Who will look for the ones that blend--
          the ratty weed colored ones
                    hiding in a snarl of grass--
Or watch those watching from the willow thicket?

In the rush of Things of Great Import
          who will note the rakued belly of a bottlefly?

And who will note the one within the many--
          the tiny stem of clover in the purple field
                    its elfin bounty so poised,
                              so open-hearted,
                              so very kindly to its bee
Or mark the perfect petals of a single floweret
          in the tangled filigree
                    of Queen Anne's Lace?

Who will stop stark still
          to catch the housemaid's smile,
Or the crescent moon of a newborn's nail?
Or a freckled eyelid?

Who will mark the flickering moment
          when innocence slips
Or the shudder and snuff in a rheumy eye?
Or note a wish inhaled
                    and swallowed like cold meat?
Or see a dream wince in hard light?

Who will watch over feint stars
          and plain old weekdays
And count the very little miracles
                    as they fizz and burst like soda bubbles
And deem the world flatter 
                              for each small loss?