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.
The End.
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