Frank James Ryan Jr...FjR (A Collection of Select Works... / The City That Never Sleeps)

Comes the cold, black, wake of autumn,
harbouring its' pique on naked limb;
damp, feral winds astir
to the stalking, hawking,
and hideous squawking...
of ominous, impetuous birds;
large and intrusively pestilent,
inexorabally circling,
'neath the late day shadows
of a cold november sunfall.

And the crows of Autumn, wear angry eyes,
the kind you felt on the back of your neck
when you read Edgar Allan's ''Raven''.
Teasing the breeze-spun tumbleweeds,
as they roll over cornfields... spewing-
threads and shard of stick, and husk,
gaunt signs of a harvest dying.
Clouds bleed deep sage, and drape
over the foreboding presence
of these dark-winged beasts in flock,
fecklessly searching for any sign
that autumn had not yet abandoned them.

Dark and black, blackest black, hovering,
over the last man standing,
in this smoke-dry field,
rigidly stationed with stoic poise,
donned in spirited, tattered plaid,
guardian of the harvest,
protector of the field,
intrepidly perched over its cornucopia
of waning autumntide-offerings.
Thus, hanging upon six feet of wood
stands the Scarecrow,
weathered, yet sturdy,
in a pose of crucifixion.

And, the taunting begins,
with a strident kick of breeze,
as the crows fly low, in arrowed flank,
with bitter, and arrogance-
their Autumn slipping away.
Swooping to the gust of a winter prelude,
obsessively circling, their black eyes gleaming,
the strawman succumbs
to a wind-flounced dance,
and to the evil delight of its menacing prey,
while Wind choirs strond...in loud soprano
like high-pitched fifes on air.

And Autumn dies colourless;
bare, brittle in burial.
No Death Hymn be sung
as winter seals its casket.
And the crows, cold and jaded,
fly away as they came,
wreak havoc south of cotton
untill the April month -
when melting ice unveils
fresh buds on lonesome branches
of a Spring awaiting breath,
and hence, they come again
once again...and stay they will
'til the next black Autumn.