Autumn. A Poem.
The wind blew a blustery breath,
It shook the trees through bare.
Adorned upon his rotting perch, black like death,
Was the crow that did not care.
His feathers ruffled, in the icy wind,
As a chill consumed the air.
The walk of the farmer had become a bind,
As he trudged through fields ever bare.
In the old oaks above, leaves were scarce and few,
Golden auburns and rusty browns floated down to the ground.
They rustled and crunched underneath each shoe,
So charming and familiar was that old Autumn sound.