The Pasture Froze
Our old milk cow died.
She ate some poison berries.
“Can we use the meat?”
Autumn Has Tipped
Blood runs sluggishly
through my veins. I hibernate.
Autumn has tipped
In the Hoosier flats,
snow blows across the billiard top,
and swoops up the outbuildings.
Farmsteads become duneworlds in white,
while fields are but faintly powdered,
and corn stubble beards the homestead.
Farm kids, like runners at the blocks,
await the school closings.
Four Ravens and the Guardian of the Underworld
Were I to take affright by omens ill, I’d be startled by the ravens on my sill.
Oh why do they tap so on the pane, and am I sensible or insane.
I shudder under their fateful stare, those coal-black eyes reflecting glare.
Shiny, yet so dark and dead, except the swivel of the head,
which moves around to peer at me, and seeks to pounce should I flee.
I summon courage to drive them away, but they rebuke me with wings aflay.
Their stalwart courage grates my nerves as I wonder what dread demon they serve.
Can I escape the gruesome fate of being the carrion on their plate?
My thoughts evaporate in sweat, but up leaps my hissing arching pet.
The ravens anxiously take to flight; and flap and flap out of sight.
Did my feline forestall my demise, or was it just chasing flies?