Вино из одуванчиков

           ComeSeptemberyoupushdownthewindowsyoupushedup,takeoffthesneakersyouputon,pullonthehardshoesyouthrewawaylastJune.Peopleruninthehousenowlikebirdsjumpingbackinsideclocks.Oneminute,porchesloaded,everyonegabbingthirtytoadozen.Nextminute,doorsslam,talkstops,andleavesfallofftreeslikecrazy."

           Helookedfromthehighwindowatthelandwherethecricketswerestrewnlikedriedfigsinthecreekbeds,ataskywherebirdswouldwheelsouthnowthroughthecryofautumnloonsandwheretreeswouldgoupinagreatfineburningofcoloronthesteelyclouds.Wayoutinthecountrytonighthecouldsmellthepumpkinsripeningtowardtheknifeandthetriangleeyeandthesingeingcandle.Hereintownthefirstfewscarvesofsmokeunwoundfromchimneysandthefaintfarawayquakingofironwastherushofblackhardriversofcoaldownchutes,buildinghighdarkmoundsincellarbins.

           Butitwaslateandgettinglater.

           Douglasinthehighcupolaabovethetown,movedhishand.

           "Everyone,clothesoff!"

           Hewaited.Thewindblew,icingthewindowpane.

           "Brushteeth."

           Hewaitedagain.

           "Now,"hesaidatlast,"outwiththelights!"

           Heblinked.Andthetownwinkedoutitslights,sleepily,here,there,asthecourthouseclockstruckten,ten-thirty,eleven,anddrowsymidnight.

           "Thelastonesnow...there...there..."