A shooting star moves across the night sky,
streaking from southwest toward west.
Before it gets that far, the light is made too
faint to see. This is how it seems to work:
The end is complete while you’re still trying
to find the proper words for parting.  

The breeze through the open car windows
carries a foretaste of colder days and
endless, frozen nights. It’s okay. There has
to be an end to summer sometime. And
perhaps Frost and Eliot were equally,
agreeably right about how the world ends.  

So long to the wounded dove at the
breakfast table, and the butterfly on one
wing. Farewell to the yellow house with white
trim and porch railings. Adieu to the sand
dollars. Adios to the waves that brought
them to the beach. Goodbye, Ocracoke.