Gray sky threatens rain;
Sun has fled into the clouds;
No shadows at all.
The trees are stock still;
The earth is holding its breath.
What a time to walk!
Pile of pine needles,
Turning brown before winter.
Moisture all around.
Cow moos, rooster crows,
Plane rumbling in the clouds;
School bus passes by.
How many behinds
Have filled this ancient chair
Now set out for trash?
Sprinkled in the trees
A few leaves are hanging on--
Just biding their time.
Whiff of tobacco
As the sports care whooshes by;
Then pungent Fall returns.
Sixty-two per cent:
The forecasted chance of rain.
(I walk the one third).
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