Stretched across a steel grey sky,
suspended, held in motion,
November’s “V” shaped lines of peace,
eternal, together, broken.
Whispered through the firmament,
a rustled hush of wings,
purposed rowing, stroking home,
calmly metered autumn dreams.
Harvest stubble left to fields
in gently woven tawny rows,
counts the lea twixt bearded forests,
passing o’er the few perched crows
who claim a bleacher fence post,
chatting, calling kind farewells,
while overhead the gaggle moves
in steady flow, within the swells.
Tomorrow comes first snowfall,
its scent betrayed to naked fields,
where subtle breezes carry hopes
of winter’s coming, autumn’s yield.