spot of fall
the last pure sun
full on burns your naked skin

the leaves just beginning to singe
to turn to coil up a bit
the wind picks up

from the northern side
as the turn from
green to orange

makes its way down the sun's
traverse
along the trees

unto the corn standing in the field
the
peanut's about to be tilled

all the turnips peas the black eyes
the purple hulls
pulled and put up

in mason jars weeks ago
cotton bolls
erupting virulently

on the long horizon from here to
eternity it seems
the birds visiting

soon it will bring the dove's to the slaughter
with all the life left lying
still

in the field
and the pleasant sounds
of growth recede

into purest  harvest
the wreck of fields
the reek of peanuts death

turned up drying in the fields
make tears and noses sniff
and the harvesters shall shake

the snow from the bush and spread it
around the land the roads
like Jack Frost

in 85 degrees
360 degrees
and it portends

the change from bright long days
to a more reasoned rush on a porch
the end of another year

shorter days less
hurry a still kind of rush

a looking back
and another looking
towards next spring