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And, in th' dead november closure
of cold dirt, and barren oak
th' feral air above still breeds
with th' haunting carry
of hideous sqwawking;
ominous, impetuous,
inexorable..., and circling,
'round th' umbered haze
of a late autumn sunset.
'Tis the crows of autumn in flank,
stalking the weedspun tumbleweeds
as they roll o'er th' cornfields... spewing,
threads and shard of stick, and husk,
gaunt signs of a harvest passing, dying.
Clouds bleed deep sage, and populous,
with th' presence in flocks
of th' dark-winged beasts,
ever searching for th' tell-tale
that autumn had not abandoned them.
Dark and black....blackest black...hovering,
o'er th' last man standing in th' smoke-dry field.
And stationed, with stoic poise,
clad in spirited, yet muddied, 'n tattered plaid,
stands th' guardian of the harvest,
protector of th' field,
and its cornucopia of autumntide-offerings.
And, th' scarecrow hangs steadfast,
upon six feet of weather-cracked wood...,
in ossified pose.....statuesque!
And, clad in their feathers, long and black,
fly th' crows, low, in jet-arrowed flank....,
So menacingly!
Swooping to th' whisp of th' autumn gust;
mockingly circling around, 'round, 'round....,
'til th' strawman succumbs
to a wind-flounce of dance.....,
and to th' evil delight of th' these birds of prey.
And th' wind sings a song in soprano
like high-pitched fifes on air, so clarion.
And autumn fades to black,
bare, and brittle in its death,
whilst th' crows breathe cold,
and, fly away.....
'Til the April month,
whence they come.... once again.
.....Written February 26th,2008.....
Frank James Christopher Ryan, Jr.
Frank James Ryan, Jr
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