Rustle, rustle, speak the sheaves.
Brown and crispy now the leaves.
Stalks still upright, ears bent low,
Tell waiting tractors where to go.
Plants that towered nine feet high
Are cut and crushed, by and by;
When the harvesters come in,
When corn shuttles ear to bin.
Fall wind eddies, stirs the husks,
Sends them twirling in the dust.
A pale moon rises, chased by clouds.
Dark falls early, hides the grouse.
In bare soil, bereft of cover,
Nary a creature now finds shelter.
Empty, dank, ‘neath steely skies,
Fields await north’s snow and ice.
first published in Flyway
©2001 Bonnie Manion