Oracles and Omens

fall cedars

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.

one of those kinda moods

Autumn sky

Pretty sure its not your attitude but the way
you cross your arms that makes the crows
fly from the dead hickory and the old carp
rise to the surface of the oil glazed water. Not
a pretty picture and not too satisfying when
the gnarled pine needles sharpen and the asters
dodge the wind. So sudden the seasons
change and your scars are tattooed
across the autumn horizon, not willowy
but weary as the old oak muttering to the sparrows
about the vagaries of the north wind. What on earth
could this mood foretell? Wishing wells and copper
pennies could do no harm as the cross eyed cat
walks a fine line and drifts across the scorched red
maple leaves and into the yellowing wood.

October Sunday on the Cove

Nov fog 2

trumpeting from the gray skies
wild geese rise from the cove
call to worship
majestic maples
robed in scarlet leaves
Sunday vestments
small boats
bob in the morning rain
heads bowed in prayer
mists hover over the gray water
rising to meet the clouds
morning meditation

Sepia Season

october rain

Dull pewter skies,
sodden with autumn rain,
reflect tarnished silver
in the cove.

The landscape is the color of old photographs,
faded and worn from the years
of handling
and recollection.

Fields will soon be plowed under.
This season, this year,
will be relegated to memory-
our lives captured in faded pictures.

Heavy with rain,
the cedar boughs bow to the north wind-
their resinous pale berries
the color of coming frost.

The Beginning of the Fall

Autumn on the lake

I sweep autumn leaves from the porch
and listen to the crows caw
from across the dry meadow,
the only birds still in residence.

The trees are empty.

The birds have abandoned me.
Are there runes scraped into the bark of the cedar,
just outside the window?
‘Beware all life is fleeting, flee!’
Soon the mirrors will be covered
and voices hushed
in winters sorrow.

I miss their songs.

I miss feeling their presence-
the feathers left in my path
as if angels were near,
watching and protecting.
But the trees are now deserted-
all the winged creatures
have left.
Leaving me
alone to keep vigil
in the beginning of the fall.