Summer months fell into the autumn.
Mist clung to pine before the sun rose.
Brown needles falling from the sky
slide down the barn’s green metal roof.
We walk past fallen trees, piles of brush,
two tree stumps to be removed, knee-high
patches of weeds and wild flowers, a
bat house, three thistle-filled socks,
a burnt circle in the dirt from last
years burning, and finally the green gate.
The open field stretches to the horizon
and beyond with our imagination as to
the wonders nature has planned as
the sun emerges above the treeline.
From the east, we hear them.
Closer, louder, they circle at
great heights, specs in the sky,
appearing to descend the closer
they come to the field, as we
move behind grasses.
One last circle and their
grand black bodies against
the autumn blue, pass over
our heads, a slow motion dream
with an empty mind, one wing flap
echoes through the open field
and soon the whoosh disappears
along with the raven, natures’ wonder.