The County of October

I bought a ticket for October
from a fellow beside the county line,
who wore a heavy coat in September
and claimed the town served supper at nine.
He warned me the weather could change by noon,
the roads might become rather slick,
and anyone entering after sundown
should travel with manners and a walking stick.

I entered the town beneath dripping skies,
where red leaves gathered along every street,
while yellow leaves sailed through the gutters
and brown ones collected around my feet.
The courthouse clock had stopped at seven,
the barber had shuttered his shop,
and three old men beneath an awning
were arguing whether summer would stop.

A boy sold apples beside the square,
a woman sold pies from a stand,
while a preacher announced that October
was surely the finest place in the land.
A band played somewhere beyond the houses,
with drums that rattled through the air,
and every few minutes a gust came charging
through the square like a man late for a fair.

I followed a road toward the hill,
where houses leaned beneath dripping boughs,
and found an inn with a painted sign
that promised warm supper and beds upstairs.
The keeper examined my coat and boots,
then charged me a dollar to stay,
remarking that travelers leaving October
usually waited until May.

I took the room and watched the rain
come down across the town below,
while leaves went racing along the roofs
like citizens fleeing a county show.
By morning I had decided to stay,
for October possessed one excellent rule,
which every traveler learns after entering,
that summer may leave, though October is cool.