INDICATIONS
Breath is holding form now,
as the promise of sleep whispers
seductively in the cold fields.
Up on the hill, the wild pears
hide crystals of ice inside
their sweet white flesh -
as tendrils of pumpkin vines
lie in dark and delicate rot.
And weeds, that so carefully
multiplied themselves
in the heat, now shiver boney
and brown in the wind -
their rustling, a death rattle.
At the edge of the field,
high, in the interlaced
branches of a walnut tree,
a plague of gregarious grackles
marshal themselves.
They scold me - and scream
their disapproval of my
aimless wanderings.
