The gray of November
settled into the folds of the hills,
tamping down brightly colored leaves
into fog and dark mists.
Crows cried out in greeting
when your footsteps were heard-
black feathered messengers-
oracles of your return.
As in a dream,
their cries echo across the hillside,
shouting your name
until I saw your face
and I knew.
Keepers of tales and omens,
tricksters and thieves,
the crows stole my heart
tying it in the old dead hickory
to wave and tatter
in the wind.
Away, ye fiends of fleathered shade!
The scarecrow snorted and sneezed.
All hail the man, all strawed and hayed,
Who dreams of heroical deeds!
Away, ye darts and drap of drear!
Away, ye fists and windscum!
Away, ye handless menaced fear!
Away, ye cornhearted ravendrum!
The corn is cobbled and kebbled too-
Shucks, dry and exhortated.
Best yet for crows who fuss and flew
Up the chimney transportated.
The bawkish caws from cornfilled gums
Where bracken blith and bumbled,
Gave nought but minus instead of sums
And left squired scarecrow rookly humbled.
*** a bit of nonsense for Tony’s MTB prompt for dVerse.
ferocious wind
scrapes the spine
of the rocky ridge
rattling the emaciated ribs
of oak and hickory
shaking even the crows
from the black feathered sky
Handwriting Practice
Fluid cursive strokes
Across the parchment field
Ink black feathered fonts
Move row to row
Sharpened yellow nibs >>>
Move this way <<< and
That >>>
Dotted by the shining curious
i
Words and letters
Swirl and rise
Off the page
Arial, Bodoni, Copperplate gothic
Garamond, Lucida Bright
Trebuchet, Veranda, Vivaldi
Looping and crossing
Until the sharp black commas
Punctuate the deep blue volume
San serif of crows
The Desert Comes Sometimes
The desert comes sometimes
when I least expect it.
I wake up one morning,
open the door
and the sand stretches from my doorstep
to the horizon,
as far as I can see.
I might have felt the sting of it on my face
sometime in the days before –
a hot dry wind may have given me a hint of things to come.
But usually I am taken by complete surprise
or worse, I find myself wandering aimlessly
through the dunes, not knowing how I came to be in this place.
I know the desert
can dry your soul
to skin and bones.
I know you can get lost.
I know that hope can get lost.
I know that crows
just look like crows
And not heavenly messengers.
— The Course of Our Seasons – AuthorHouse Publishing 2011
thecourseofourseasons 