The weather turned overnight. Now a cold wind pushes gray-white clouds fast across a blue-white sky. A newly broken branch in the tree out front sighs audibly, cradled in the arms of others that caught its fall. Strips of frail golden debris pirouette down the road, the last vestiges of dried and shorn corn stalks using the lift of currents to dance in their decay rather than surrender.
Here there is no Black Friday. There is only Friday, and even that will soon not be true. The clock will keep turning. The weather, too, will turn again. I too will dance while I can, then, in whatever current is around to lift me, and when there is only stillness I will sing. And I will give thanks for my blessings no matter the day or the day after called to do so.