Autumn comes–shorter days, cool and scented
with decay. Leaves without their chlorophyll. Flowers
crisp and brown-edged. The lingering hues saturated
against the surrounding fade. Pinpoints of color,
raging. The earth preparing for
the long sleep.
*
I write my way.
I write my way.
I write my way
to you.
*
Winter comes–silent, gentle–sounds muffled
by the cold. Bare branches reach. Click
against the sky. Crows call, their voices louder for
the silence. Louder for their hunger.
Need. Want. I leave bread for them. Scramble
an egg. They carry messages in return.
*
I write my way.
I write my way.
I write my way
to you.
Beautiful!
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This I love…
Crow is the messenger… xXx
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