They fly in a murder
Throughout the sky
Feathers painted black as night
Yet shimmering in the sunlight
You hear their call from far away
No doubt with something to say about
Friend and foe alike
Colder weather has come for awhile
Triggered a sense of community
For you’ll see them looming by the hundreds
Above your heads consuming an entire tree
Once upon a time and still today
A feared creature unknown, an unpleasant omen
But is it that way?
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.
A single green leaf flutters in the breeze,
It is one of many on this sturdy maple tree.
The leaf is changing slowly,
Does it know it will soon be free?
The sunshine is warm and nourishing,
But the days are getting shorter it seems.
From green, to red, orange, and yellow,
The little boy wonders, do the leaves have dreams?
Its life cycle has been completed,
The leaf lazily falls to the earth below.
Its purpose to nourish the soil now,
Is all it needs to know.
Trusting in the process as scary as change can be,
This is the wisdom of the Fall, the story of a tree.
I step out into the darkness,
The light of the full moon sweeps across my backyard,
Creatures of the night begin to awaken,
And I am ready to become immersed in the magic of this night.
High-pitched clicks sound near my head,
I see a glimpse of small creatures, flying this way and that,
Backdropped against a black canvas peppered with distant sparkling stars.
I am thankful for the bats presence as I wave away another mosquito buzzing at my ear.
Dark clouds begin to float in, seeming to swallow the stars and even the moon,
Soon the darkness is absolute.
Yips and growls rise from the back of the cornfields,
Disjointed howls soon meshing to become one united chorus,
I listen as their song slowly begins to fade, as they move deeper into the forests beyond.
Another sound reaches my ears, a sense now heightened due to the lack of sight.
High up in the spruce trees a whistling trill begins low, notes rising, then falling,
I recognize the call of an Eastern Screech Owl,
And now there are two.
What are they saying, I wonder?
I breathe in deeply; picking up scents of freshly cut fields, rain-soaked earth and undertones of decay,
A sure sign of fall.
I quietly take my leave, not wishing to disturb the magic I experienced this night,
Whispering to the darkness,