An American Pastoral

The summer of scarecrows ends. Empty pastures rattle

with flecks of clay and sand, browned leaves in heat-rippled

updrafts. A dry cough in the air: yellow haze, hints of decay.

Landmarks emerge from shadows: a rusted plow leaning

against the last black walnut tree; fragments of old barns peering

from the horizon; storm-swept fences; a veneer of milkweed seeds

drifting. Almost-forgotten, a fading landscape.

There – the gentle curve of a country drive lost to thickets of grass,

fallen branches. Once-familiar furrows in now-fallow fields buried

beneath a blanket of thatch and clover. Behind the old house,

three apple trees and tendrils of honeysuckle embrace, fill the air.

The mingled scent of overripe fruit and late blossoms hint of fading

beauty, and something once shared. Will this feel less lonesome

when autumn no longer lingers with empty promises of renewal, when

the flat sky echoes with the resonant cries of migrating birds?