The North Wind does blow,
His chilly fingers on my face
Tell me it is time to go -
To leave our mountain home
And seek a warmer clime
Before ice forms on the lake.
How can winter be so close?
The woods are alive with color -
Yellow, yellow and more yellows
Of every shade and hue -
Reds and orange, browns and russet too.
Autumn having her last fling
Before submitting to Winter's icy sting.