Mhall46184@aol.com
A Mild Cold Front
An
errant frog’s the only voice to sing
The
day to sleep in this warm, blustery dusk. The whippoorwill of yesternight is still;
The deep-voiced owl is silent too. The wind
And damp have silenced even the twilight dogs
(Do dogs make paw to the doghousey wood?).
The grasses sigh; the bare oak branches hum
The long-dead autumn leaves blow this way, that;
The clouds - they darken, lower, hover, grim
Upon the land, where winter ought to rest.
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