The howling sound, the waving bare branches. Your age old greetings, timely every fall, dreaded every winter. Clouds are pushed here and there, fallen leaves swept away. What's not fixed or tied down flown off. Gone is the past season of fear that virus spread through the air. Holidays are here, relief is near, hopes flare. The whirring and squealing, as if demanding or begging for a medal. Only my bad poem shows up for comfort.