Fall is icumen sing cuccu! To paraphrase an ancient Middle English rhyme I read many years ago.... (It was winter instead of fall but that will do for now). An amalgam of thought have been hovering over me these past weeks. They all come like a boisterous thunder, all entangled and ready to awaken me in the middle of my ever present slumber. The election, the gay protests, the exile, the cold weather, loss, wonder, new environments. Change is constant. The Pink Cowboy is not melancholic as suggested by a reader, he is pensive, a little bit inhibriated by the diversity of change...the proverbial kaleidoscope of human existance a true example of this notion. I can hear a sad song followed by a silly children tune...it's not sadness, at least it's not sadness all by itself, it's celebration, dwelling in my humanity. I cannot bear being someone else in order to calm people's anxieties about me. I am a storm. I am somewhat easygoing and entertaining in the outside, but let me tell you: The fire flickers like a madman in my heart. The amazing display of changing colors makes me think about my life. Splendor before death. I see the changing trees that will be barren in a couple of weeks. Oh Nature!, you are a mother to us all. The Pink Cowboy rejoiceth. My poetry has always dwelled in change or rather the observation of change. To rage before the dying of the light like Dylan would have said. Rage becomes the climax of an irreverent coupling between man and sky. Leaves of many colors, friends, lovers, casual acquaintances, fleeting people on a rainy day, God, you and me.