How Brown It All Is

Rooster's single crow
Rings out in the gray morning;
Then he just shuts up.


How brown it all is:
Grass in the field and dead leaves.
Basset looks forlorn.









Chain saw rips loudly;
Peter's bent over the logs
Storing winter warmth.

Somewhere a strange breeze
Carries a strange pungent smell
Touching memories.

They're completely brown:
Former spheres of white blossoms.
When did that happen?












Riddled with dark holes,
Insect wrought and wood peckered,
The dead tree still stands.












Dark seeds marking time
Inside the silken white puffs
Waiting for release.












Garbage at road side;
Maybe they'll take the sign, too.
(One can always hope.)