Discarded Bag of Dog Shit

A gray cold morning,

Birds resting on forsythia;

Not flying this way.

It feels like snow fall

Is just around the corner;

All sunshine has fled.

Resting on the tree,

Wood owl becomes part of it.

Owl will disappear.

There's just a red dot,

Marking where the tree has been.

Giant has fallen.

First flakes of snow fall

Softly without any sound.

Will fields soon be white?

Bright white birch tree stands

Tall to face the coming snow

And shame the gray sky.

Lying by the road

Discarded bag of dog shit

Neatly wrapped, shiny.

In sumac shadows

Small fir tree branch has fallen.

Looks like it's home.