The fields are back to brown.
They’ve been churned and turned and set to sleep
Their crops are all cut down
And there is a frost upon the hardening ground.
Around the pitted edges there lie
The scattered leaves of autumn
And above my head in impossibly blue skies
Birds circle and fall
Chase and call
Fill the air with their croaking cries.
These patchwork pieces that form the quilted land of my home
Are not lost to life these dying days
But are filled with nature’s bright displays
They are the grand ring
And I watch upon the centre stage as the actors all march in.
Here he comes
The most colourful one.
A rusted coat of feathers shimmers from puffed out pompous chest to the mottle on his back
As he flaunts his flamboyant robes of gold and black.
Stretching from his still and starched white collar, his neck of purple and deepest green
Clashes with his red and ruddy cheek
And adding to this eccentric pallet; the yellow of his beak.
He struts
A gilded walk of pomp and poise.
He barks
A grating and ungainly noise.
But it is all bravado and pretence for at the slightest sound
He stops wide-eyed and statue still then huddles to the ground.
Then spooked by nothing more than wind through trees or falling leaves
He bursts forth with a flapping flush
A flap and flurry, a feathered hurry
A chaotic panic and fuss.
But when no threat or danger seems to come
Cautious and embarrassed now he decides the show is done
And so calls forth his court of harem hens dressed in brown
Demure and meek these ladies bob and peck the ground.
They follow in a line behind as he leads them from the floor.
Act one of autumn’s play is done; I applaud but want for more.
