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.

Just like

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.

If I

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.

Now to

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

To come

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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s