scours the leaves from frosted branches.
The wrinkled fingers of oaks and spruce
cling a month too long to Autumn
like aging grandmothers
and remain outside until the sky
is bleached winter gray.

The rain in Binghamton
scatters the clusters of stray cats
and the faded fur mixes with dirt
almost black and almost orange.

The rain in Binghamton
breaks through the spotted holes of rooftops
and fills the dents in curling linoleum
like an army encampment
fills slim valleys before battle.

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