Gentle currents of fall breeze
curl over a patch of prairie land.
Around the sun clouds drift
casting golden mirages on browning ground.
Long lost tales under crispy leaves tan,
turning red in winter drawing near.
coves of blankets as dome over my bed,
evermore dimming quiet and about silent
here hibernating under the patchwork
looking out one large window white and wood and old,
feeling I would never need another moment alive
especially with these songs of crows. They make me laugh.
was a bluebird I would be gathering
a finch chirping, a woodpecker, coddling my young
squirrel jumping, and as a lizard scurries
lively small worlds bustling, all strategically working
before, away they go partial to their own dens of yearning.
Cold earth corners waiting for warmth again, house, home, hearth, and table.
stretching and so much to do in the coo of evenings warm laps of dew.
Moisture rich and budding tips of plant life.
I’m up half the night, morning, and day, evening is day and
why not another parade of whistling visits.
Blossoms watching over great cat and mouse chases
Tree and field open to see another rolling hill shine green
stricken heat slower time moves on
bursting small episodes in the best of dawn and dusk hours.
Lazy afternoon sweats, mint and picnic berry soothing cool.
Curious eyes look for crumbs, for the birdbath, for shade,
and light and waiting days spread thin over rock, wood, and stream
patiently reluctant gray tides of change, rolling the free range back.