Into The Mud Poem by Ron Wallace

November winds lift Texas
up across the Red. All things green
are going gold,
and life dances death in swirling turns
across the yard.

The southern hymn of geese
plays in the air, high above changing trees,
and even the rowdy chatter of crows
sounds sad and hollow in the late fall rain.

Endings always bother me.

Copperheads and moccasins
will soon be moving into winter mud
to lie beneath the turning earth
to wait for spring
and the longer light of warmer days.

Already I miss the summer music.